


Bound by Crimson

by magma_krystal



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Body Horror, Crimson Flower, Drama, Engagement, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Graphic Violence, Past Child Abuse, Plot, Romance, Smut, Wedding, huleth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:29:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27622742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magma_krystal/pseuds/magma_krystal
Summary: In the days after their engagement on the Goddess Tower, Byleth and Hubert must learn to connect with each other away from war. However, the wounds that fester in the shadows of the Empire threaten their peace.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth & Hubert von Vestra, My Unit | Byleth/Hubert von Vestra
Comments: 41
Kudos: 87





	1. Chapter 1

The carriage rattled as it traveled down the cobbled road to Enbarr. Darkness filled its interior, save for the greenish moonlight which bled from the mass of murky clouds. Rain pattered on the carriage roof, blending with Edelgard’s soft snores. It was unusually chilly for a damp Garland Moon night, but Byleth felt warm next to Hubert, his cloak wrapped around her shoulders. His pinky rubbed against hers, so slightly that she was uncertain if it was just the movement of the carriage. Through his glove, she felt the outline of the ring she had given him.

It was hard to imagine that only a day before, they had spent the entire night up on the Goddess Tower, talking about the future. _Their future_. Much sooner than Byleth had wanted, dawn had painted the sky in peach watercolor, and she and Hubert had separated to make the final preparations for the move from Garreg Mach to the Imperial capital.

“She’s asleep,” Byleth whispered, glancing up at Hubert, then back at the emperor. Edelgard’s head bobbed with the motion of the carriage, her breathing deep.

Hubert raised an eyebrow. “Good,” he murmured, “I was becoming impatient.” Silently, he slipped his arm around her waist, long fingers resting at her hip. Byleth leaned in and pressed her lips against his. So close to him, she could smell the pleasantly bitter scent of cloves in his cologne, mixed with the slightest taste of coffee on his lips. He returned the kiss, then moved his mouth downwards. He left a trail of soft kisses below her mouth and down her neck. On the soft flesh below her ear, Hubert bit her, just slightly.

She felt the cloth of his glove muffle her mouth as she gasped in pleasure. The tips of Hubert’s ears were turning pink as they looked over to Edelgard. She had stopped snoring, her eyelids half open. After a great sigh, the emperor turned over in her seat and her sleep continued.

Hubert’s hand was still clamped hard on Byleth’s mouth as he inspected Edelgard. Byleth caught one of his fingers in her teeth and bit it, hard. Hubert pulled his hand away and smirked. “Just envision…” he said, pressing his lips to her ear, “…how I might punish you later...”

Soon, the tall shadowed trees that lined the road were replaced by stone houses in shades of cream and red. Out of the carriage window, Byleth could see a domed structure emerge. It loomed over the city, the gold that accented its walls glittering in the moonlight.

“The Imperial Palace,” Hubert said, following her gaze. He leaned forward, tapping on Edelgard’s knee. “Your Majesty.”

Edelgard stirred, looking at her retainer groggily with her violet eyes.

“We have arrived in Enbarr.”

Half-asleep, the emperor seemed to permit herself a small smile. “ _Home…_ ”

As soon as their carriage stopped in front of the palace, servants flurried around them. Byleth watched as they carried boxes of her clothes, her weapons, her books—everything that she owned—into the entrance of her new home. As a mercenary, Byleth had not been accustomed to staying in any one place more than a few weeks, if not days. Her time at Garreg Mach Monastery had been the longest she had ever settled down.

She swallowed. When Hubert had asked her, in their hours together on the Goddess Tower, if she might come live with him in Enbarr before their marriage, Byleth had accepted without hesitation.

Truthfully, Hubert had not quite _asked_. “As my betrothed, I believe it would be most prudent for you to remain by my side,” he had said, leaning against the stone wall of the tower. “House Vestra has lived in the palace with the Emperor since Adrestia was founded, so that we may best attend to our duties in the Imperial household. Her Majesty will find your close proximity highly convenient.”

His green eyes had darted away from hers. “An unmarried couple residing together might stink a bit of scandal to those of a nobler disposition…” (In the private language of innuendos that Byleth and Hubert had grown to speak with each other, “those of a nobler disposition” had become code for one orange-haired paladin.)

“…I, however, am not bound by the Goddess’ fragile rules of morality. I have no qualms about sharing my bed with you immediately.” At that last part, Hubert had met her eyes once again. His gaze had been filled with such intensity that if he had so requested, Byleth would have happily removed her clothes on the spot and let him take her on the tower balcony for all the monastery to see.

The former mercenary refocused on the open doors of the palace. The servants disappeared as the last of their belongings were taken inside. Byleth felt her stomach clench slightly.

She had been inside the Imperial Palace once before, when Edelgard had requested her presence at her coronation. All she could remember of it was how brightly it glimmered. By then, the divine power of the progenitor god had coursed through her veins, the sight of her seeming to enrapture onlookers in the palace nearly as much as their new emperor.

The palace was a place of overwhelming beauty built on a foundation of unyielding strength. Byleth could envision that such a place was Edelgard’s home—and Hubert’s as well. This time she would enter the palace with her eyes and hair drab with mortality, with a body that ached with wounds old and new and that was so much weaker than she remembered. She wondered—gazing out to the golden light spilling from the doors of the palace—if she was worthy of calling this place _her_ home.

She watched as Hubert passed in front of her, the tall man crouching as to not hit his head on the low roof of the carriage. He opened the door, then outstretched a hand to Edelgard. “Your Majesty.”

The emperor blinked away the last of the sleepiness from her eyes and descended from the carriage with Hubert’s aid. Though Edelgard was far smaller than her retainer, Hubert let his other hand linger over her to prevent his emperor from hitting her head on the door frame.

As Byleth followed, Hubert did not offer his hand in assistance. Instead, she felt his other arm fall, his fingers lightly running through her hair and down her back before they retreated. They glanced at each other and the mage gave her one of those smiles he seemed to save just for her, a smile without any of his usual sarcasm or condescension beneath it. 

Byleth felt the knot in her stomach relax. Whether she was a vessel for the Goddess or a battle-weathered mortal, Hubert would not look upon her with the same near-worshipping reverence that he directed towards Edelgard. Instead, when Hubert looked at her, Byleth knew that he saw her as his equal. That was far better.

“Hubert,” Edelgard asked a bit firmly, breaking their stare, “Is there word of Mercedes? Or the Death Knight?”

Hubert shook his head. “Not as of yet, Your Majesty. All of our witnesses at the battle in Fhirdiad reported the same.” He crossed his arms. “They fought besides us against the Immaculate One, but vanished in the aftermath. Almost as if they were never there.”

Byleth felt a pang of guilt in her newly-beating heart. The “aftermath”—as Hubert had put it—referred to her collapse after Rhea’s defeat. A strangled, horrible roar, the ground shaking as the dragon’s great head fell and lay still. After that, she had been enveloped in darkness. Bernadetta had told her later of the sheer terror she had felt from the sound that escaped from Hubert when he saw her fall. The way that his magic began to dribble down from his fingertips and pool at his feet like purple sludge.

Even after Byleth’s heart began to beat, her memories were blurred. All she could recall was pain, and Hubert’s scent. According to Ferdinand, the mage had carried her to their horses and watched over her all the way back to Garreg Mach. For days after that, Hubert had stayed by her side in the healing ward, refusing any form of nourishment or rest.

“It was a demonstration of astonishing chivalry,” Ferdinand had recounted, shaking his head incredulously, “I must admit that I am envious. The thought that Hubert might be the noblest of us all is…disturbing.”

Byleth was unsure if Hubert was the noblest of them, but he was undoubtedly the most perceptive. And in the aftermath of the battle in Fhirdiad, in the moments when he might have noticed where Mercedes and Jeritza had gone, his focus had been entirely on her and another of the strange miracles that seemed to befall her.

She shook away the guilt and laid a hand on Edelgard’s shoulder. “We will continue to search for them, El.”

“Thank you, my Teacher.”

After they ascended the steps of the palace, as man separate from the collective of scarlet and gold-clad servants stepped towards Hubert.

“Lord Hubert,” he bowed, white hair bright against his dark robes. “Welcome back.”

Hubert nodded at the elderly man, then turned back to her. “Byleth, this is Otto. He has served House Vestra for years.” He put his hand lightly on her lower back. “Otto, please take my fiancé to our wing. I must ensure that Her Majesty’s rooms have been prepared to her expectations.” With that, the mage wove through the mass of servants into the main doors of the palace.

Byleth smiled at the old man. “A pleasure to meet you, Otto.” She followed him to a much smaller entrance in the palace’s western wing. The door was lined with a dozen locks and bolts, which Otto unfastened with a variety of keys and spells. When they entered, Byleth’s eyebrow raised when she saw but a single simple lock on the inside of the door. “ _Strange…_ ”

The family wing of House Vestra was far different from the glorious halls of the rest of the Imperial Palace. The hallway glowed with magic-lit lamps, yet the light seemed to be devoured by darkness if it traveled more than a centimeter away from the lantern. As she followed Otto down the passage, she had to look twice at the view outside the windows. On closer inspection, the scene of the Imperial gardens dripping in moonlight was painted on the faux windows.

“ _Fiancé_ ,” the old man murmured as he plodded down the hall. At last, the hallway opened up to a high-ceilinged room. A bed—dressed in Imperial colors—stood at its center. Above it was a portrait of a man who must have been the late Marquis, his long face and green eyes very much like Hubert’s. His hair had been dark as well, but long strings of it dangled around his face rather than in soft curls like his son’s. At his side was a woman with golden hair and blue eyes.

“Hmm…so Her Majesty has given the boy a wife.” She felt Otto’s eyes on her, looking at her up and down as if to decipher her. She wondered if everyone in service of House Vestra came to adopt that piercing gaze.

Byleth had learned that the most effective way to combat that stare was to meet it. “Edelgard had nothing to do with it.”

The servant squinted. “You are marrying Lord Hubert out of your own accord?”

Byleth held her eye contact and nodded. After Edelgard had congratulated them so eagerly, seeing a servant of House Vestra react to Hubert’s engagement with such disbelief was unpleasant. “We love each other.”

“Love!” The servant’s face contorted as if he had swallowed vinegar. “I apologize. It certainly is not my place to criticize.” He rushed out of the room. There was a creaking of a door and a rustling, then he returned, something in his grip.

“I served the Marquis when Lord Hubert was but an infant, and long before. I have seen a great many things in this place. But in all my years, I have seen nothing worse...” He held the object up to the light. It appeared to be a cushion, covered in reddish-brown stains. “Nothing worse…than a son slitting the throat of his father while he slept in his chair…watching his father choke on his own blood with a smile.”

His wrinkled hands shook, fingers white in their grip of the cushion. “I will say no more. I have already said too much.”

The story did not surprise her. Once, during a respite on the battlefield, Hubert had told Byleth about his assassination of his father. It had been a day when war seemed more like slaughter than justice, when it had seemed impossible to wash the blood from their hands. Even Hubert seemed shaken by the senseless loss of lives on that day.

“It is my duty to eliminate those who stand in Her Majesty’s path,” he had said, looking out at the corpse-strewn field, “but even I sometimes regret the loss of their pathetic lives. Such a waste.”

He told her then about how he killed his father, the recounting of it spilling out of him as if he had been waiting a long time to exhale.

“But of all the blood I have spilled, I will never regret draining the life out of that contemptible man. I would do it again, with pleasure.”

The mage had looked at her expectantly then, almost as if he had predicted that she would turn away from him, that she would yank away the warmth of her friendship and gaze upon him with fear and disgust at last.

But she had not been afraid. Instead, she had gone closer, wrapped her arms up around his broad shoulders and held him. Hubert had shakily returned the embrace, then squeezed her tight, as if he thought Byleth might disappear like a dream.

“I’m not frightened of him,” she said, standing firm before the servant of House Vestra.

The elderly man lowered the remnants of the Marquis’ murder. “You should be frightened.”

As the servant spoke, Byleth noticed a purple circle appear in the floorboards behind him.

“Frightened of who?” Hubert inquired as he warped into the bedroom.

“L-Lord Hubert!”

The dark-haired man looked at Otto amusedly, the servant struggling to hide the bloodstained object behind him. “Are you attempting to scare off my betrothed? She has seen far worse than that glorified pincushion.”

The old man bowed. “My apologies—”

“That is more than enough groveling, Otto. I have a request.” Hubert pointed a gloved finger to the portrait of the Marquis. “Please arrange for this to be removed by tomorrow. I will not have my father leering at our private affairs.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Otto bowed again. “I will cover it up at once so that it does not displease you tonight.” He left in a hurry.

Byleth looked up again at the portrait. Father and son truly had an unmistakable resemblance, but the woman—soft and rosy and golden-haired—seemed out of place.

“Is that your mother?”

Hubert went to her side and leaned into her delicately. “You suspect otherwise?” He chuckled. “How perceptive of you, as always.” He brought a hand to his chin thoughtfully. “No. That woman is my stepmother.”

“And your mother?”

“Dead.” He continued, interrupting her look of sympathy. “She perished the year after I was born. My father soon replaced her with the Countess,” he nodded up to the portrait. “A political arrangement with House Nuvelle.”

Byleth observed his expression, but saw neither malice nor affection. “Is she still alive?”

Hubert smirked. “Surely. After I eliminated my father, I asked her to disappear. I had no quarrel with her or my half-siblings. My father told them little of his work. They posed no threat to Her Majesty.”

He looked away from the portrait and Byleth felt a twinge in her heart. That seemed to be all Hubert wished to say on the matter. Byleth desperately wanted him to continue, to tell her every small detail of his life. Away from war, she knew so little about him. Every morsel of knowledge that she learned about Hubert von Vestra left her starving for more.

Otto returned and covered up the portrait with a cloth, then left them alone at last. Byleth noted how relaxed Hubert’s shoulders became once he was no longer observed by his father’s portrait or his servant. She watched him unbutton the jacket of his uniform and hang it up with their cloaks. Underneath, he had on a white silk shirt that was far more revealing of his thin, lightly muscled body. He sat on the edge of the bed, and she joined him. Byleth found that she couldn’t meet his eyes. She stared down at his sharp collarbone, at the bit of dark hair on his chest exposed by the unbuttoned top of his shirt.

During the many sleepless hours of travel since their talk on the Goddess Tower, she had fantasized about this moment. Their first time truly alone, away from the bustling monastery and the Black Eagle Strike Force. Away from Edelgard. Just the two of them.

As they had grown closer as friends through the war, Byleth had desired more and more to show Hubert how much she valued his intelligent mind, his wit, his undying devotion to creating a better Fódlan through Edelgard’s dream. Long before they had proposed to each other and even before she fully understood the depth of her feelings, she longed for this very moment of solitude. In war rooms and battlefields, she had made a new world with him. Alone, she longed to make love with him.

But now that the moment had come at last, Byleth had no idea of how to begin.

Hubert broke her thoughts with a clearing of his throat. He seemed to share her bit of discomfort—or at least noted it—as he left the edge of the bed and crossed the room.

“Let me see…” He stuck his arm behind a bookshelf. “Ah!” He brought out a bottle of green liquid. The mage pulled off the stopper and gave it a sniff. “My father was a vile piece of filth, but I will admit that he had a fine taste in vices. Absinthe?”

“Please.” She grinned and joined him at the shelf. Growing up with a gang of mercenaries, a strong mug of ale or a pour of whiskey were her drinks of choice, but living among nobles had opened up her palate to entirely new tastes. Booze from an inn was often one of a few shades of brown, but the nobility seemed to have every color of liquor at their disposal.

Hubert found two small glasses and a jug of water, and poured out some of the green liquid for them both. Byleth lifted the glass in cheers and threw it back. Despite her burning throat, she could taste several strange flavors, many of which were quite bitter.

The mage went white and covered his mouth with his gloved hand. His shoulders started shaking, and then a burst of laughter escaped from beneath his hand.

“It had slipped my mind…” he snickered, pushing back his dark fringe, “…that you are Jeralt’s child. I have been reminded.”

He poured more liquid into her glass. Before she could take it, he put a few drops of water into their glasses, then gave her a playfully threatening glare. “ _Sip._ ”

She shrugged, stuck out her tongue, and downed the whole glass again.

Hubert smirked, then grabbed her wrist and pressed her up against the bookshelf. Her glass fell and broke at their feet but their eye contact was unbroken. With remarkable gentleness, his fingers slid up her arm and lingered to catch her chin. He met her lips with his own, mouth hot and hungry.

Byleth gasped when he pulled away, so much sooner than she wanted. A faint blush dusted his prominent cheekbones. He looked away. Shoving his hands in his pockets, Hubert turned away and walked deeper into the wing of House Vestra.

“Allow me to show you around,” he said as if nothing had happened.

Byleth tugged at her tights—trying to ignore the aching warmth that had begun to grow between her legs—and followed him into another dark hallway. There were more painted windows, just like those at the entrance of the wing.

“House Vestra is tremendously private,” Hubert explained, following her gaze. He tapped one of the windows. “If there were ever any danger in the Imperial quarters, this wing would provide ample defenses and secrecy for Her Majesty.”

They passed by several small rooms, beautifully furnished and filled with wooden swords and stuffed animals. At the headboard of each bed was a simple painting of the Goddess. Hubert entered a larger doorway at the end of the hall.

The room was quite large, each wall lined from floor to ceiling with bookshelves. At one end was a long desk carved from a deep red wood. An ornate image of Sothis blessing the Four Saints hung above the desk chair. “The study,” Hubert said brusquely, swiftly passing through to a door at the other end.

Within was another small room. Rather than being full of toys, a great quantity of books was stacked neatly around it. Covering up all space on the walls were diagrams outlining sections of circles of magic, and others demonstrating detailed battle formations.

“Your room…” Byleth murmured, noting how bright the blankets were on his bed, as if they had barely been used. On the headboard was the same image of the Goddess. The eyes had been blackened out with ink. The thought of a young Hubert scribbling out the eyes of Sothis—dripping with dramatic gloom—made her giggle.

Hubert rolled his eyes when he spotted the headboard. “Adolescent immaturity…”

In the midst of her laughter, she felt the tall man pressed up behind her. “Unless…” he purred in her ear, “…the Goddess is still within you…” He covered her eyes with his hands. “It would be a shame to have her watch while I defile you...” Hubert’s breath in her ear made Byleth tremble.

The ache between her thighs was unbearable. The former mercenary swept her legs out behind her, and Hubert fell on his back with a grunt. He looked up at her, green eyes wide with exhilaration. Byleth sat on his stomach and leaned over his face, tracing the sharp lines of his cheekbones and chin. The mage gripped the back of her hair and pulled her down for a kiss. His tongue flicked against her lips, wandering in to meet her own. He growled as Byleth laid herself fully on top of him and began grinding against him. She moved his hands to her ass and he squeezed her body closer against the hardness growing in his trousers.

It was her turn to suddenly lose her breath when Hubert rolled them over to lie on top of her instead.

“Byleth…” he murmured, as he kissed down her neck to the tops of her breasts. His hands hovered over them. “May I?”

She nodded. Hubert sat her up, and with his nimble fingers unfastened the hooks that held the top of her uniform together. She stroked her fingers through his dark curls as he worked, impatient for his kisses to continue. The soft underclothes that laid beneath were much simpler to remove, up and over Byleth’s head with one swift movement.

Hubert pulled her into his lap. “I am still a bit bewildered that you chose me,” he said, taking in the sight of her bare chest. “You are perfection.”

Byleth took his hands and gently peeled the white glove off each one. Hubert flinched slightly as his bare hands emerged. Years of dark magic had riddled his flesh with purple lines, thin and delicate as spider web.

He had shown her his hands once before, on one of their late nights together sorting through the Church-forbidden texts preserved in the Abyss libraries. In a bestiary of Fódlan monsters had been a description of the shadow walkers—wandering entities of darkness who had once lived as men. Rather than using magic of nature or the gods, theirs was a magic of the will. Over time, it caused their bodies to decay from the inside out until they were nothing but corrupted spirits, shadows hiding in the mist.

Byleth had assumed the tome was a Church-approved text mixed in with the banned books, a tale used to frighten young mages and prevent them from finding strength in their will. That was until Hubert removed his gloves for her and showed her the poison swimming under his skin that might one day devour him.

Byleth brought Hubert’s hands to her lips and kissed the tip of each finger. The scars of dark magic might be lethal, but she still thought they were beautiful.

She put his hands on her breasts and he exhaled heavily. He leaned forward and kissed her lightly around her nipple, then gave it a tentative lick. Byleth shuddered and pushed herself closer to him as he continued. His thumb circled the nipple of her other breast, over her heart, and—

Like a flash of light, Byleth was blinded by pain. In every limb, in every muscle, in every vein, all she knew was pain. “ _No…not again…_ ” she thought desperately _“…Not now…_ ”

“Byleth…!”

Hubert’s voice was murky in her ears, as if she were underwater.

She felt like her blood was on fire, her body screaming at her. No, _she_ was screaming.

Byleth yelped as she felt Hubert’s arms beneath her, carrying her. She flinched when her body hit the plush blankets in the master bedroom. Every sensation was another degree of agony.

“Where is it?” she heard Hubert rustling through their unpacked belongings, searching for a jar. “Where did von Hevring put that damned medicine??”

In the days after the battle against Rhea, Byleth had been engulfed by fever, one that could not be sweated out or cooled away. After Manuela had exhausted her usual methods, Linhardt had entered the healing ward with a rare sense of focus. When an ailment of the body is unexplained—he reasoned—a Crest is often to blame. His hypothesis proved to be correct.

“The Crest of Flames was attached to the Professor’s heart through a Crest Stone,” Linhardt had explained to each member of the Black Eagle Strike Force a bit too excitedly. “When Rhea fell, the Professor’s Crest Stone shattered. She may not have a Crest any longer, but remnants of the Crest of Flames may always flow in her blood. The Professor’s body is inflamed from fighting off something that doesn’t belong. How horrible.”

What finally broke Byleth’s fever was a paste of hot chilies and ginger root from Dagda blended with a long list of other inflammation-fighting plants. The healers prescribed that she ingest a portion of the paste daily to prevent another attack.

But in the whirlwind of her time on the Goddess Tower, the preparations to leave the monastery, and their day of travel on the road, Byleth could not possibly recall when she had last taken her medicine.

She heard Hubert curse again, then felt him lean over her. She started when she felt his hand reach behind her neck. Suddenly, the pain vanished. A gasp escaped her as it was replaced with a sensation of cool vibration down her spine. There was still a burning in her limbs, but it no longer registered in her mind as pain.

“Hubert…Thank you…”

“You will be in agony again as soon as I remove my hand,” he said sharply, jaw tense. The mage considered her for a moment. “Byleth. I wish to try something additional. I ask for you to trust me.”

She nodded. “I do.”

His left hand firmly gripping the back of her neck, he brought his right to her shoulder, massaging it with his strong fingers. When Byleth glanced down, she realized she could see Hubert’s magic traveling under her skin, probing around with that same cool buzz. He worked his way through her arms, her back and chest, and then to her hips. She saw the question in his eyes before he could ask, and she kicked off her boots, then shimmied out of her tights and underclothes with his aid. Hubert’s magic running through her body was such a relief that it took her several moments to realize—with a blush—that he was seeing and touching her fully nude form for the first time. His green eyes were steely in concentration, but the redness of his face that traveled to the tips of his ears betrayed his thoughts.

At last, he slowly removed his hand from her neck. The cool sensation subsided but the pain did not return. Byleth reached up and pulled Hubert down for a long kiss. He scooped her up, placed her head down on the pillow, and pulled the blankets over her. When she put her arms around his neck to bring him to bed with her, he ducked away.

“Hubert…” she whined at his stern expression. “Come to bed. I want to finish what we started…”

“You need to rest, Professor,” he said firmly, stepping away from the bed. He turned from her, attempting to hide the evidence of his arousal in his trousers. “I…I will return to your side in a moment. I must attend…to a duty of mine…Excuse me.” He stepped out into the dark hallway.

Later and half-dreaming, Byleth felt Hubert come to sleep beside her. He buried his nose in her hair and let out a long exhale. He murmured something then, too softly to hear. She felt him roll over to his side of the bed and felt no more of his touch for the rest of the night.

* * *

“Lord Hubert.”

Byleth growled and pulled her head up from her pillow. She felt that she had barely slept but a few hours, though in House Vestra’s wing it might have been noon and she would have had no way of knowing it. She felt Hubert sit up, and she joined him.

An Imperial guard was at the foot of their bed holding a candle. His eyes widened for a moment when he saw her.

“G-General Byleth.” He acknowledged her with a nod of the head then turned back to Hubert. “Please excuse the interruption to your rest—“

“What’s happened?” Hubert interjected. It seemed that years of service in the Imperial household had trained him to become fully alert from the moment he woke. “Is it Her Majesty?”

“No, my Lord.” The guard swallowed. “It’s General Jeritza. His body has been found.”

Byleth’s heart dropped. So their worst fears had been true. Jeritza and Mercedes had not disappeared out of their own free will. Guilt crept back into the pit of her stomach.

Hubert sighed. “Where is the body?”

“Outside the palace.”

“What?!” The mage said icily. “I will not have Her Majesty see her general in such a state. Bring the body inside at once.”

“That is the problem, my Lord,” The Imperial guard shuffled nervously. “We can’t.”

They dressed quickly and followed the guard out into the great hall. As they strode through the main doors and stood on top of the palace steps, the guard stopped. His hand shook as he pointed upwards.

The flagpole usually flew the scarlet and gold banner of the Adrestian Empire, the double-headed eagle spanned proudly on its cloth. This daybreak, Jeritza hung there instead, his body covered in black feathers that seemed pierced into his very flesh. His arms splayed out unnaturally—dripping with crimson—a black eagle mortally suspended in flight.


	2. Chapter 2

This matter needed to be dealt with, and quickly.

“Byleth, please inform Her Majesty of Jeritza’s passing,” Hubert said, squinting upwards. The sun was beginning to rise over the city horizon, the light blocked out by the stiffened body of the former general. “Your words will be far more gentle than mine.”

Her eyes left Jeritza and lingered on his. Byleth was a woman of so few words, but her periwinkle eyes expressed more than she ever could with her tongue. Then, she nodded and went inside. His fingers ached as she left. He wanted to take her hand, to kiss away her shock and grief—but no. There was work to be done.

Another glance at von Hrym’s contorted, feather-pierced limbs sent a shiver down his spine. He was not frightened by the sight—Hubert had seen countless more gruesome deaths, many inflicted by his own hand. Rather, it was the clearly calculated symbolism that made his stomach twist. A lord and top general of the Empire, displayed as a bloody Adrestian eagle on the doorstep of Her Majesty. It was a direct insult to Lady Edelgard, a violent spectacle that he would make certain that she would not see. He would not permit whoever had done this to have that satisfaction.

“Guard,” he said sharply to the Imperial man that had woken him, “Help me bring the body down.”

The armored man shook his head. “We tried. The rope is…wrong.”

“Come.” Hubert gestured for him to follow to the foot of the flagpole. He took the rope in his glove and reached out with his magic.

For Hubert, using magic felt like the release of a cold pressure behind the eyes that flowed down to his fingers. To use this energy, he needed to envision a circle of magic in his mind’s eye to cast its spell. Novice mages spent many years of their training carrying around a book of magic circles for reference. As a user of dark magic, however, Hubert had rarely had the luxury of books to help memorize his spells. He had needed to calculate many of the magic circles himself, gradually gathering snippets of information from historical accounts and fragments of Church-forbidden manuscripts. After all that work, he could envision these circles as easily as his own name.

A spell of analysis was a simple and common use of magic, but what he found in the rope that left Jeritza suspended was not.

“A blood-binding…” Hubert mused. His magic was drawn to the similarly cold buzz of the binding. He took advantage of this and pulled, absorbing both strains of magic into his palms.

Immediately, the rope loosened. He called over more guards to aid him in pulling down the dead general.

After he helped to carry Jeritza’s body into the healing ward, Hubert knocked on Manuela’s door. Much to his annoyance, he had needed to step over a pile of discarded traveling bags and several spilled potions to reach the entrance to her room. He knocked again. After a long pause, the former songstress slowly opened the door.

“Oh,” she said groggily, frowning at the sight of him. “It’s you. You better have a good reason for disturbing my beauty sleep.” Her breath stank of old booze.

Hubert’s jaw tensed as he bit back a retort. He made a note to remind Manuela later of the much higher standards expected of her as the new head of the Imperial healing ward. If Lady Edelgard had not insisted on hiring Manuela for the position, Hubert would have never approved due to the woman’s long résumé of unprofessional habits.

“Jeritza has been killed,” he said, hoping the urgency in his tone would bring her out of her hangover. “I require an autopsy.”

It had been too much to hope for. “Ugh. Can’t it wait?” She leaned against the doorframe.

He held her upright. “ _Now_ , Manuela.”

“Fine.” She stumbled out of the room. “Goddess, Hubert. If you weren’t such a pain in the ass, a girl might like how aggressive you are.” She made an attempt to wink and nearly tripped over one of her bags.

The mage swallowed his revulsion. “I would have anticipated that you would have more to say about the death of your former colleague.”

“Hah!” Manuela thrust her fist in the air. “Serves him right for stabbing me! He ruined my youthful, porcelain skin!”

However, her demeanor changed completely when she set eyes on the body.

“Oh…” Manuela’s half-drunken clumsiness seemed to vanish, replaced with the caring and skill of an experienced healer. She checked his eyes, his mouth, and any other parts of his body free of feathers. She looked down at his face, grey with death. “I had forgotten…how young he was.”

Manuela tried to tug one of the feathers from Jeritza’s skin. It didn’t budge. Hubert touched the tip of one lightly. Its sides were razor sharp.

“Do you detect dark magic as well?”

The healer nodded. “I think so.” She tried to remove another feather and failed. “These feathers...Their material is almost identical to that of the blade that killed Jeralt.”

“Thank you, Manuela.” Hubert gave her a short bow. “That is all the information I required.”

He swiftly advanced to Her Majesty’s chambers, heart pounding.

Lady Edelgard was sitting with Byleth on her vanity bench, the two women conversing in low voices. If his information had not been so urgent, he would have wanted to stop and watch them together. Observing the bond between the two people he cared for the most made him feel disgustingly sweet and gooey inside. But there was no time to waste on such frivolity.

“Your Majesty,” he said, bowing deeply. “Byleth has informed you of Jeritza’s fate, I assume?”

She nodded. “It is a disappointing loss, one that could have been prevented. I do not understand how their capture evaded our notice.” Her violet eyes were sharp as the blade of her axe.

“It was an error that we must strive never to repeat.” Hubert suddenly became very aware of how unkempt he must look to his emperor. In the rush to deal with Jeritza’s body, he had not had the time to brush out some of the more unruly tousles of his hair or to shave. He pushed those unproductive thoughts aside to make room for more pressing ones.

“Manuela’s autopsy of the body has confirmed my suspicions. This spectacle was devised by Those Who Slither in the Dark.” He met Her Majesty’s gaze. “This is a declaration of war.”

His emperor exhaled harshly. “They must hope to strike us down now while our army is still wounded and weary.”

He saw Byleth grip the sword leaning beside her. From the way she dug her fingernail into the hilt, he wondered if she was thinking of Jeralt. She had been so patient during their loathsome partnership with the Slithers, but now, there would be nothing to hold her back from avenging her father’s death.

“Could they not have given us a moment of peace?” Lady Edelgard said quietly.

Hubert knew how badly his emperor wanted to root out Those Who Slithered in the Dark. They had torn apart her family. Her childhood. Her own body. But he could understand why she hesitated. There had been countless nights when he would be jolted awake by her terrified screams. For several months, he had dedicated himself to sleeping by her side. When her dreams were plagued by the horrors she had experienced, his embrace seemed to calm her. But one night when he put his arms around her after another nightmare, she had pushed him away, commanding for him to leave her be.

“Enough. I won’t accept your pity,” she had told him sharply. “You are my retainer, not my crutch.” The memory of her words still stung.

Edelgard was deeply afraid of Those Who Slither in the Dark, but he would not allow her fear to be her crutch either. He needed her to be strong—for all of them.

“Peace is not a luxury an emperor can afford,” Hubert said firmly. “You have set yourself on this path of blood to clear the way for all of Fódlan. I remind you: I will walk this path with you eternally. We both will.” He stole a glance at Byleth, and the thought of serving Her Majesty by her side made his heart swell with pride. “But you must keep walking—now more than ever—for if you stop, the Empire will fall to its knees.”

“Forgive me, Hubert, for my moment of weakness.” His emperor stood, her unpigmented hair radiant in the morning light. “Send a message to the rest of the Strike Force. We must discuss our next move immediately.”

He bowed again. “Yes, Your Ma—“

“E-EDELGARD!”

The mage turned to find Ferdinand behind him, chest heaving, looking as if he had sprinted the mile from House Aegir’s Enbarr property to the Imperial Palace. The paladin put a hand on his shoulder and leaned against him for support as he caught his breath.

“The Death Knight—“

“Yes Ferdinand, we are aware.” Hubert slinked away from his sweaty grip. “We have already informed Her Majesty of Jeritza’s death.”

“NO!” Ferdinand gulped in air. “She is rampaging in the city square as the Death Knight.” He was pale. “It is Mercedes.”

They were stunned into silence. Mercedes had treated every member of the Black Eagle Strike Force with the same compassionate warmth. She was like an older sister to them all, always looking after them and ever ready to lend a helping hand. After Arianrhod was destroyed, she had left a basket outside Hubert’s door, the warm scent of butter wafting from its contents. It had been filled with small cakes, flecked with bitter chocolate. Even though Hubert had been certain that he had properly suppressed his emotions about the disaster, Mercedes had still seemed to notice how frightened the unexpected loss had made him. The thought of Mercedes—violent and bloodthirsty—was inconceivable.

Byleth stood, sword in hand. “We have to help her.”

He grimaced. If Mercedes was far enough gone to attack Enbarr, then she would likely need to be eliminated. Even if she did break from whatever trance had been placed on her by the Slithers, there was no guarantee that she wouldn’t fall back into it and murder Her Majesty. It was too great a risk.

His love furrowed her brow as she looked at him, as if she had heard his thoughts.

“While she lives, there is still hope for her. We must try.”

Hubert made a decision.

“Are you armed?” he asked Ferdinand. The paladin nodded, pulling his lance from behind his back.

Hubert looked at Byleth. “I swear that I will try to save her.” He adjusted his gloves tightly against his fingers. “But if I fail, I will do what must be done.” He gave Ferdinand a nod. “Byleth, protect Her Majesty.”

There was a whooshing in his head as he warped himself and Ferdinand to the city square.

Screams erupted as citizens ran around them. Merchants had abandoned their wares; a vendor’s cart had been overturned, spilling cherries into the street. Their dark juices trickled on the stone. The sharp scent of iron cut through their sweet scent.

Mercedes was atop the Death Knight’s black stallion, letting the horse drink from the fountain at the center of the square. The dark armor hung loose on her small frame, clattering as she rocked dizzily on the steed. Blood dripped from the Scythe of Sariel in her grasp into the waters of the fountain.

“ _The feet of the emperor…are drenched in Fódlan’s blood_ ,” she chanted thickly, giving the scythe a messy swing. “ _Where she roams…death will follow_.”

He saw Ferdinand shiver. There was a darkness emanating from the woman, cold as a bare hand thrust into an icy pond. They approached Mercedes slowly. Hubert readied the spell circle for Dark Spikes in his mind.

“Mercedes.” Ferdinand held up his hand, as if he were greeting a friend who was not intent on slaughtering them both. “It is a beautiful morning for a ride, is it not?”

Her sunken eyes focused on the orange-haired man, but she continued chanting.

“Would you care to join us for tea in the palace?” His voice shook only slightly. Hubert was unsure if von Aegir was exceptionally brave or extraordinary naïve. “I must admit, we have missed your sweets.”

Mercedes seemed not to hear, swinging the scythe back and forth like it was a doll.

“How long do you intend to go on with this theatre?” Hubert asked, his voice tight.

“As long as it takes.” Ferdinand stepped a bit closer to the fountain, brushing a long lock of hair behind his shoulder. “Mercedes is our friend. I will not back down from her that easily.”

Backing down would not be a problem. Suddenly, the reins of the stallion grew taut, and the horse lifted its head from the fountain, pink-tinted water dripping down its muzzle. Mercedes kicked the horse and galloped forward directly towards them.

Ferdinand yelped as Hubert shoved him out of the way. The mage hovered a few feet to the side just as the horse sped through the gap between them.

“I could have easily dodged that,” Ferdinand sat up, grumbling.

“You just did,” Hubert said, helping him to his feet. “With my aid, of course.”

He cursed as he noted the trajectory of Mercedes’ horse, which raced at full speed to the palace. With a flash of purple, he warped, then visualized the spell for Mire. Throwing his arms down, he brought globules of sludge into the woman’s path. The stallion reared at the sight of the pool of bubbling ooze at its feet. The mage spread his fingers wide and summoned an arc of Dark Spikes around Mercedes. As cold pressure built up behind his eyes, he went to curl his fingers and trigger the release of the spikes.

“Wait!”

He straightened his fingers. Ferdinand had caught up to them. The gold in his armor glinted as he waved his arms.

Hubert frowned. “For Her Majesty’s protection, this must end. _Now_.”

“Please.” Ferdinand slowly approached Mercedes. “Just one more try.”

He sighed. The spikes evaporated. Hubert had not held back to humor Ferdinand—Rather, the paladin had come too close to Mercedes and would have likely been killed in the crossfire. Ferdinand was far too essential to the Empire to dispose of so thoughtlessly.

“Mercedes,” Ferdinand said softly. He slowly went up to the side of the horse and held out his hand. “Listen to my voice. I am your friend, remember?”

Mercedes looked down at him blankly, whispering her words over and over. Hubert approached carefully from the front.

Ferdinand did not retract his hand. “Do you recall when you taught me to bake those pastries? I was so distracted by demonstrating my talent at carving apple roses that I spilled the flour everywhere!” He laughed, sadness at its edges. “You were so patient.”

The paladin looked up at her, then took his lance and placed it at his feet. “I will not hurt you, Mercedes.”

The Scythe of Sariel slid from her grasp and clattered on the stone. Mercedes dismounted the stallion and after a moment of hesitation, took Ferdinand’s hand.

Everything happened all at once: Mercedes ducked down to grip Ferdinand’s discarded weapon and Hubert grabbed her around the waist. She whimpered in a voice more her own.

“Ferdinand…Help me…”

Ferdinand’s hand clenched into a fist but he did not move as Hubert drove his dagger into Mercedes’ heart.

When it was finished, he gently laid her body down.

“That was no longer Mercedes,” Ferdinand said quietly, his amber eyes damp.

Hubert cleaned off the blade with a cloth he kept on his belt to avoid looking at him. “I am grateful that your urge to come to her aid did not blind your perception.”

The paladin shook his head. “I am not so easily fooled.”

“So it seems.” He couldn’t think of anything of much comfort to say to the shorter man. Such words did not come naturally to him. “We will avenge her,” he tried. 

Ferdinand nodded silently.

* * *

That evening, they gathered in Enbarr Cathedral. The half-siblings laid as if asleep on a bed of white petals, plucked sweet and fresh from flowers in the Imperial Gardens. Jeritza’s body was draped in Imperial colors, hiding the black feathers that had stuck so stubbornly to his flesh.

All members of the Black Eagle Strike Force had traveled to Enbarr with Her Majesty but Petra and Bernadetta. Though Hubert had sent a raven to them both, he knew that the princess would likely be too far on her journey west to Brigid to be able to attend. Bernadetta—he anticipated—would choose to mourn in solitude from her home in Varley territory.

Though he would never admit it, he envied her. The weeping, the wailing, the sentimental recollections of past days—all of these public displays of grief made him nervous.

Hubert looked over to Byleth, the dark blue of her hair rich in the candlelight. Their friends were gathered around her, seeming to cling to every word of comfort from their Professor. She was so beautiful in times like these it made his chest hurt. Byleth was like a warm hearth on a winter’s night.

Hubert felt like a vulture in comparison, dark and looming—that every attempt he could make to express his condolences stank of death instead. He knew that some believed that death made him feel nothing, that he even took a sick pleasure from it—he had heard some say as much when they were unaware of his presence. The mage looked down at Mercedes and Jeritza and swallowed. No, the truth was quite the opposite. Grief made people act strangely. It made them lose control. Become unpredictable. His father had taught him long ago to tamp down his own emotions so they would not blind his senses. But watching pain transform those he cared about—that overwhelmed him.

The pungent incense in the cathedral was making his head throb. He had not stepped into Enbarr Cathedral in years. That gaudy stained glass, that horrible off-green hue of the marble floor…the memories of the place made his skin itch. Hubert took a long breath inward. He did what he always did when his feelings became too loud in his head: concentrate on the facts.

 _“The war with Those Who Slither in the Dark will be over as soon as we locate Shambhala,”_ he thought firmly. _“Once we find it, we will tear them out of Fódlan by the roots.”_

He heard a lamenting sigh besides him. “I was hoping to have the chance to study their Crests,” Linhardt said, shaking his head. “They both had the Crest of Lamine, you know.”

He smirked, a bit in relief. What Hubert lacked in comforting words, Linhardt lacked in tact.

“Yes, such a pity…” he said, leaning closer to the green-haired man. Hubert smiled at him, as sweetly as he could muster. “Linhardt. You know that I possess great admiration for the sharpness of your intellect.”

Linhardt squinted at him, then sighed. “Why am I getting the feeling you want something?”

“I will be departing for Arianrhod in mere hours. I require your aid.”

“Arianrhod,” Linhardt whined, “Why? Arianrhod was destroyed, Hubert. There’s nothing interesting there.”

Hubert’s eye twitched. Time to change tactics. “It is a _research_ investigation.”

“I haven’t even gotten the chance to go the Imperial library yet…”

“I have suspicions that Arianrhod holds the key to finding the base of Those Who Slither in the Dark. If we do not succeed, Fódlan will be engulfed in war and you will likely never set foot in a library again.” He looked down at him and deepened his voice. “Our cities will all be sieged…every library will burn. Generations of history will dissolve into dust…Imagine the screams of the books as they are devoured by flames. _Linhardt…you could have saved us…Linhardt..._ ”

“Fine! Fine.” Linhardt rolled his eyes. “Do you know that you’re awful?”

Hubert bowed. “You have my gratitude.”

“Ugh.”

He went to turn away when he heard Linhardt snort with laughter.

“Yes?”

“It’s just, I can’t stop thinking about this bizarre rumor.” He shook his head. “They have been saying that you and the Professor are engaged!” Linhardt put his hand over his mouth for a moment as if to hold back another giggle. “Isn’t that strange? The Professor…and _you_!”

“Oh yes,” Hubert said dryly. He pulled off his glove and put his hand under Linhardt’s nose. “How inconceivable.”

At the sight of the ring, Linhardt immediately began yawning. “Oh my, these candles are making me sleepy. I better find a pew to nap in. Goodbye, Hubert.”

The mage sighed. Was it truly so amusing to imagine that Byleth might love him? Perhaps it was. After all, at the Officers Academy, he had earnestly listed all the ways he planned to kill her on a number of occasions. Her tactical prowess, her skill with a blade, her bafflingly effective teaching abilities despite her lack of experience—all of these things had seemed to entrance Lady Edelgard. Her trust in the Professor might have endangered everything they had planned.

Though he would not admit it to himself until much later, Hubert had been enthralled as well. He had found himself lingering in front of the dining hall so that the Professor might invite him to dine with her—obviously an opportunity to observe her eating habits in case he might wish to poison a future meal. He would threaten her life from time to time, as the reminders of her precarious position as friend to the Imperial Princess were _certainly_ not excuses for him to loom over her close enough to count the flecks of silver in her periwinkle eyes. One night, thoughts of the Professor left his mind in such a plague that sleep was impossible. Desperate, he gave in and relieved his pent-up frustrations. He was so mortified by the root of his unrest that he was unable to look at her for days afterwards.

Of course, after Byleth had risen from her five-year slumber, everything had changed. Surely Linhardt and the rest of the Strike Force had noticed how close he and Byleth had grown as the war raged on.

Hubert crossed the room to Byleth. At his approach, Her Majesty motioned Dorothea away from Byleth’s ear and suddenly became very interested in telling the songstress about the storied history of the cathedral candlesticks. He bent over and kissed Byleth’s cheek, taking a moment to enjoy her scent before he pulled away.

“Hue,” Byleth murmured, looking up at him with a sad smile. At his touch, she pressed up against him, laying her head against his chest. He felt an aching in his limbs as he held her. “You’ve been keeping your distance today. Are you alright?”

He chewed his lip. Nothing seemed to get by her, did it? It was one of the reasons he loved her, but it greatly challenged his usual competence in hiding things.

“I am fine,” he said, rubbing her shoulder. “There was much to arrange for the funeral. It was also necessary to inspect the palace for any other signs of our enemies.” All of this was truthful. He simply did not mention that he had instructed one of his men to procure him a map of northwestern Fódlan and to load three horses with several weeks of supplies for his journey to Arianrhod.

Her eyes were a bit red from shed tears as she peered up at him.

“ _She sees right through me_ ,” he thought as guilt stabbed him in the heart.

“I don’t blame you for Mercedes’ death,” she finally said. “You did what was necessary.”

“…Thank you, Byleth.” He knew he should be relieved that she had read him inaccurately, but the barb of guilt was still dug deep in his chest. “It is regretful…” He tried again. “I am sorry that we have lost more of our allies.” It sounded wrong as soon as it came out of his mouth, but it was as close to condolences as Hubert could manage.

“Let’s stay up tonight and look over what we know about the Slithers.” She beamed up at him. “We can brew a huge pot of coffee and figure out a plan together. Just like we used to do at Garreg Mach.”

Hubert nodded stiffly. “That will do nicely.”

He wondered if she could hear it in his heartbeat. _Liar! Liar!_

After the service in the cathedral, they returned to the Imperial Palace for a more joyful celebration of Jeritza and Mercedes. The kitchen had prepared a banquet of sweets in Her Majesty’s private dining room. Golden pastries overflowing with custard, cakes delicately iced with jam centers, fresh summer fruits drowned in honey—all these and more were stacked high on the table. Ice cream—bowls of it—peach and strawberry and even Almyra-imported lemon—were soon devoured by the members of the Black Eagle Strike Force. Though desserts were often too sugary for his taste, Hubert ate half a dish of lemon in honor of the sweets-loving half-siblings. Byleth ate the rest of his bowl even before he had finished asking if she wanted it.

Next to the tower of sweets, Dorothea filled the hall with her clear soprano—an aria from one of Jeritza’s favorite operas. At first, the merciless general and the songstress had few reasons to speak to each other away from the battlefield. During one evening when Hubert was visiting with Byleth, Dorothea had burst through her door, excited to reveal why the Death Knight had seemed so familiar. The design of Jeritza’s armor, she had realized, was nearly identical to a costume once used by the Mittelfrank Opera Company. The opera it had come from was a tragic tale: A man falls in love with Death herself. To gain her love, she tells him, he must be willing to die. He accepts but Death deceives him, and transforms the man into a monstrous knight cursed to serve her for eternity.

_“Your beauty steals the breath from my lips,  
I grow weaker with every kiss.  
If the blade of your love is killing me  
Then to die by your hand is pure ecstasy!”_

Hubert put his arm around his betrothed’s shoulder. Listening intently to Dorothea’s performance, Byleth seemed not to notice a drop of ice cream on her chin. He fought the urge to pour the rest of the melted dessert in their bowls over her so he could watch the sweet cream drip down her neck.

He thought about canceling the mission to Arianrhod and staying with her here. Hubert longed to sneak away with her outside to the Imperial Gardens—to pull her down with him onto the damp grass and whisper deliciously wicked things in her ear until all her grief was forgotten. He imagined touching her—and this time, his touch would not cause her pain as it had the night before. No, this time they would be uninterrupted by the remnants of that damned Goddess in her beautiful body. He envisioned his fingers wandering to the warm wetness between her thighs, his touch making her writhe with pleasure as she called out _his_ name over and over—

“Hubert?” His cheeks flushed when he realized Byleth had noticed him staring at her while he daydreamed. She tilted her head inquisitively. “What are you thinking about?”

As he leaned in to whisper to her, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

“Lord Hubert. The preparations are complete. The horses are ready at the palace gates when you and Lords Ferdinand and Linhardt are ready to depart.”

He nodded, avoiding Byleth’s confused glance. “Thank you. We will leave shortly.”

“Hubert?”

Hubert stood, feeling guilt trickle down his insides like the melted ice cream.

“I must go,” he said curtly, “If all goes as planned, I predict we will return within ten days. Goodbye, my love.” The mage left the dining room and stepped out into the gardens, head down. His arms ached with leaving her. “ _Focus, you fool,_ ” he thought bitterly, “ _You must concentrate on the mission at hand, not your damn heart_.”

“ _Hubert!_ ” Byleth was a step behind him. “Where are you going?”

“Arianrhod.” He stopped and turned back to her. “The javelins of light that destroyed the Silver Maiden originated from Shambhala. I believe that the ruined city will help us to locate Those Who Slither in the Dark.” A baffled look was on her face. “There is no reason to be concerned. Ferdinand and Linhardt will accompany—“

Byleth shook her head. “I’m coming with you.”

The long ride to Arianrhod would seem far faster with her by his side, and the chilly northern nights infinitely warmer. He nearly gave in to her then. But then the image of Byleth, her body tensed and shaking with pain, flashed in his mind.

“No. You must stay and protect Her Majesty.”

“I am not your aide, Hubert. You can’t start giving me orders.”

“ _No_ ,” he said again. “Byleth, please understand…”

“I can’t understand! We fought together all through the war and you never complained. What has changed?”

Hubert spoke softly to try to smooth the edge out of his voice. “On the Goddess Tower, I made a vow to protect you.”

“We made a vow to protect _each other_! I want you as my partner, Hubert. Not my servant. I am not Edelgard.”

“You,” Hubert said, his temper sharpening his tone, “are unprepared for battle. I have always addressed your strengths and weaknesses pragmatically. It has not escaped me that your strength is not what it once was. You are still wounded. Do you not recall that you were in agony from your wounds last night?”

His voice slowly raised as he continued. “If we are ambushed out on the road, if Those Who Slither in the Dark attempt to thwart us, what do you anticipate will occur if you have another Crest attack mid-battle?” He crossed his arms. “The Empire cannot risk losing you. You are too valuable an asset to Her Majesty.”

 _Idiot_. He wanted to rip out his tongue—those last words had been far too impersonal to address to the woman he loved.

She was quiet for a moment. “…Thank you for your honesty.”

Hubert’s mouth was dry. “No…I have spoken too harshly. What I have said is the truth, but that is not all of it.” He looked for her gaze and thankfully caught it. “The thought of you being harmed—killed—is too horrible to comprehend. Losing you would be unbearable. To me.”

“I have kept many secrets from Lady Edelgard throughout the years because I wished to protect her from the pain I believed those secrets would cause her. It was wrong of me to assume that you would require the same.” He took Byleth’s hand. It was so much smaller than his own, but strong. Callouses and scars wrote the story of her life on her fingers. “You are correct. You are not Her Majesty. I will not hide these things from you. You are more than capable of handling yourself. Please forgive me for making you feel that I ever believed otherwise.”

“That is why I ask you to please stay here and continue to heal. I beg you to forgive me for asking this of you.” He bowed his head and kissed her softly on the back of her hand.

“I forgive you, Hue.” Byleth pushed closer, wrapping her arms around him. “I’m sorry too. Losing my Crest…This new pain in my body…It’s been hard to accept. Thank you for bringing me back to reality.”

“I love you. More than I can express.” His heart ached as he looked at her. “I still don’t know how to love you, Byleth, but I vow to you that I will learn.”

“We’ll learn together.” She gave him that smile, full of such light. “I love you. Please stay safe.”

Hubert wanted nothing more than to stay with Byleth—to turn back with her into the palace to bask in her warmth. But his path, as it always had been, was forward: into the darkness, deeper into the cold of night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens...  
> Next chapter will have a lot more levity and romance (and perhaps something quite spicy), so stay tuned! 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

The greyish sludge squelched as Byleth gave the bottle a shake. She unstopped its cork and gagged. She had avoided taking her medicine for good reason. The potion was absolutely vile in odor and taste. Holding her nose, Byleth poured some of the herbaceous liquid down her throat and shuddered.

On the battlefield, her betrothed could summon putrid substances of all sorts with his dark magic. Foul miasmas, poisonous pits of muck—Once, Hubert had formed a jiggling substance in the shape of a gelatin confection and asked for it to be left near the front lines to try and tempt the hungry knights of the Eastern Church. When the gelatin began to shriek inside their stomachs, it was said that the knights were so terrified that they ran all the way to Fhirdiad to try and escape the voices booming in their bellies.

Byleth would not have been shocked if this medicine was more of that fabled Jelly of Internal Despair.

She sat on the bedroom floor and began stretching out her muscles to try to distract herself from that bitter taste. The former mercenary was accustomed to loosening up her body to prepare for fights. However, the regimen of exercises that Manuela had prescribed to her was so much slower and more laborious than the routine she was used to. Byleth raised her arms up. Inhale, exhale. She lowered them. Inhale, exhale.

So boring. She wanted to go to the training grounds and play with the palace’s seemingly limitless variety of weaponry.

Inhale, loooong exhale.

Byleth finished her stretches. She only felt the slightest itch of pain as she rocked to her feet. As awful as the medicine tasted, as dull as her new fitness routine seemed, and as much as she hated to admit it, her body did feel better.

Byleth opened the bedroom closet to dress for the day. After she hung up her sleeping robes, she took a moment to run her hands through the garments on the other side of the closet.

Hubert’s collection consisted mainly of crisp white shirts and spares of his uniform. His selection of cloaks had greater variety. Several were his usual—black with red lining and a dramatic collar. But there were a few others as well. One was a purple so dark it was nearly black, with a fine metal clasp shaped in a spiral of silver thorns. Another was long and black and hooded. On its dark silk lining, indecipherable words were decorated all along it in shimmering gold paint. She pressed her nose into the material and breathed in the faint scent of cloves.

Byleth spent the day carrying stacks of books from one room to another. Even though Manuela had advised that she avoid fighting practice for a few days until she got into a steady routine of her healing regimen, the weight of the books would at least provide some strength training. Earlier in the week, Byleth had removed the former Marquis’ collection from the bedroom shelves and stored them in the study. To her surprise, many of the volumes had been compilations of Church of Seiros sermons and scriptures. Many were quite beautiful, intricate patterns imprinted on their bindings. Their contents, however, she felt no attachments to, and knew her betrothed found them repulsive.

She replaced them with the books she and Hubert had collected at Garreg Mach, with some of his childhood books mixed in. Byleth spent hours organizing the shelves into their major categories: history (his), tactical treatises (theirs), magic (his), journals (hers). With each book she added to the shelf, she felt the bedroom become more familiar—more _theirs_.

* * *

Hubert did not approve.

He sighed in annoyance as he watched the steaming brown liquid drip into his cup. He tried once again to sprinkle a few more coffee grounds into the filter.

“Hubert!” Ferdinand exclaimed, pushing his hand away. “I am perfectly capable of making you a cup of coffee.”

The mage growled. “That remains to be seen.” He leaned back and glanced at their silent companion. Linhardt was—as expected—slumped over the log in the midst of his morning nap.

He could not resist looking back at the paladin’s coffee-making production. Ferdinand was now jostling the coffee filter to and fro. The liquid collecting in the cup was still a far lighter brown than he hoped for.

The Fódlan preparation of making coffee adopted from the Dagdans was fair. The filtering took away a lot of its sting and was perfectly drinkable to many in the continent. What Hubert enjoyed more was Almyran coffee. The fine grounds of the coffee remained in the bottom of the drinker’s cup, preserving the rich and fragrant flavors of the beverage.

No matter the preparation, Hubert needed his coffee to be bitter and strong. Anything less than that and he would be guaranteed a raging headache by noon. It would be better for them all if that did not happen.

“Might you, perhaps, add just a _bit_ more.”

Ferdinand shook his head. “If the coffee is too strong, how will you enjoy its subtler tasting notes?”

“It isn’t tea, Ferdinand.”

“It could be if you cared for the integrity of the beans!” He delicately removed the filter and handed the cup to Hubert. The dark-haired man eyed the liquid dubiously. “Do not scoff until you have tasted it!”

Hubert took a small sip. It was not...awful. Ferdinand looked at him expectantly, his hands clasped together. He slowly put the cup in his lap.

“What compelled you to make this for me?” he smirked. “Should I be suspicious?”

“It is just...” Ferdinand sighed as the praise for his coffee-making skills never came. “We are friends, are we not?”

“That definition would suffice. Yes.”

The paladin shook his head. “Then I must admit that I am wounded, Hubert.”

“There is no need to be dramatic,” Hubert growled. Ferdinand might give him a headache regardless of his coffee intake. “What have I done to… _wound_ you?”

Ferdinand sighed again, mournfully. “You did not tell me that you are engaged to the Professor!”

“Heh. Well, I am engaged to Byleth.” He crossed his arms and smirked harder. “Does that provide a salve to your wound?”

“That is not what I—Hubert! This is an astonishing development.” The orange-haired man wiped a bit of spilled coffee off his glove with his handkerchief. “I am hurt that you did not tell me.”

“There hasn’t been the opportunity.”

“We have been riding together for days!” Ferdinand thrust an arm out to their blissfully snoring third party member. “I never expected _Linhardt_ to be the one to tell me the tale of the Romance of Hubert von Vestra.” He held his hand to his heart. “Please, Hubert. How did you declare your love? What did you say to her when you proposed?”

Hubert could now recall why he hadn’t told Ferdinand. He was a truly insufferable romantic. He shook his head. “There is no tale to tell. I asked the Professor to marry me and she accepted.”

“But you must still remember your speech. You proposed but a week ago!”

Hubert had written a speech. The words had spun in his head in the days after the battle in Fhirdiad, those hideous days that Byleth had laid in the healing ward. Through her fever, through her pain, through those hours when they thought she would be lost to them, he had chanted those words in his head over and over. It was a prayer—not to a distant, apathetic god—but for the future. After Byleth had recovered, he had climbed the Goddess Tower, ready to deliver his speech at last. But when he saw her, the words had vanished from his lips. His future was right in front of him, and she was beautiful.

Hubert shook his head. “It must have slipped my mind.”

Ferdinand looked desperate. “The ring? What about the ring?”

“Ah, that I can share.” He pulled off his glove. “Byleth gave me this. I do wonder what the Blade Breaker would think of me wearing his—“

“THE RING,” Ferdinand shrieked. He took a very deep breath and tried again. “What ring. Did you give. To your lady?”

“I…did not bring a ring.” Hubert looked down at the circle on his finger. “I believed that it was unlikely that she would accept my proposal.”

He had known that Byleth was his future, but he had been uncertain that he was hers. To marry him meant binding herself to a lifetime of service to the Empire. It meant marrying a man who would not hesitate to wallow in the blood and filth of Fódlan if it meant the feet of Her Majesty would remain clean. He had doubted that any woman would wish for such a union, even her.

“No ring? No ring?” This was too much for Ferdinand to take. “You cretin! Where is your romantic sensibility?”

Of course he did not understand. “Such things are unnecessary with the Professor,” he smirked, shaking his head. “She does not care for such superficial dreck.”

Ferdinand appeared to ignore him. He leapt to his feet. “Hubert, it is fortunate that I am your friend.” He placed one foot up on the log and spread out his arms dramatically. “I, Ferdinand von Aegir, am unparalleled in ways of romance.”

Hubert laughed.

“Do not doubt me! I have read my fair share of romantic tales.” The paladin crossed his arms. “Do you believe you can hold the affections of the Professor with your brooding aura alone? She is an extraordinary woman. You must try harder.”

The mage growled, rubbing the back of his neck.

“When we return to Enbarr,” Ferdinand said, bringing his hand to his heart, “you must dazzle her with a romantic gesture.” He extended an arm. “First, you must take her hand and praise her. Such as 'I Ferdinand von Aegir, wish to feast upon the beauty in my lady’s eyes—but as I cannot, I humbly ask if I might take you to dine with me instead.'”

It took all of Hubert’s will not to roll his eyes into oblivion. “Allow me to practice.” He stood and thrust out his arm. “I, Ferdinand von Aegir—“

Ferdinand smacked his shoulder. “ _Ass_.” He settled back into his pose. “After you have dined with her, take her dancing. You must show your lady how your hearts and bodies match as one. Look into her eyes. Touch her hand.”

The paladin was pretending to dance now, spinning around and holding an imaginary lover. Hubert’s lips quivered, holding back his laughter with great difficulty. It was absolutely revolting to watch and he could not wait to tell Byleth all about it.

“At the end of the night, if you have done all that I have instructed,” Ferdinand said, gripping the invisible figure close to him, “then you must make love to her. Gently. Tenderly. Yet with all the vigor of your noble blood.”

Hubert grinned. “Ah, yes. And how many fortuitous ladies have you _made love_ to?”

“I am not ashamed for waiting for true love,” Ferdinand said, putting his hand to his chest. “After all, it would not bode well for House Aegir if I sowed Fódlan with illegitimate heirs.”

The dark-haired man snorted. “And you assume I haven’t produced any illegitimate heirs of my own?”

“Hubert, I know you have not.”

“Heh. You appear to have thought about my sex life a great deal.”

“Goddess, you two are really overcomplicating it,” Linhardt interjected groggily. “Romance? Making love? Ugh.” He stretched out his arms sleepily. “Sex is simple. Put it in, pull it out, and go back to sleep.” He yawned.

Their journey that day felt like an eternity riding in nothingness. A thick fog had settled upon the moor, obscuring all but the dirt path before them. Ferdinand continued his lecture on honorable love for most of the morning, his tenor piercing through the mist. Then the rain started—sheets of tiny droplets that soaked into their clothes with ease. Much to Hubert’s relief, the miserable weather at least seemed to stifle Ferdinand’s chattering. 

Sometime after noon, Hubert began smelling smoke. The scent clung to the fog and made his lungs itch. The fog started clearing, replaced with specks of ash blowing in the wind. He pulled his fingers through his damp curls as he gazed ahead at the blackness blooming ahead of them. At the center of the mass of smoke, the Silver Maiden burned.

By the time that they approached the fortress, the heat of the fires had dried out their clothes from the rain—instead leaving them sticky with sweat. He heard Ferdinand let out a shaky sound of empathy as they looked around them at Arianrhod’s state of utter annihilation. Hubert swallowed, loathing for the Slithers’ handiwork and smoke clutching at his throat.

Hubert unloaded his pack and got to work. His tools were simple: a package of white chalk and two metal rods.

“Start in the other direction,” he said, handing Linhardt a few pieces of the chalk and one of the rods. “Once we have laid the circle around Arianrhod’s perimeter, we will begin.” The other mage whined but accepted his share.

Ferdinand gave them a nod. “I will keep watch.”

As long as they didn’t enter through the gates of the Fortress City, Hubert anticipated the greatest threat to them would be bandits, drawn to the place to hunt for the abandoned treasures in spite of the danger. Arianrhod was covered in flames, but did not churn with pits of lava like in Ailell. According to historical records, Ailell burned for centuries before the ground under it cracked like an eggshell, the angry earth bubbling up into a further display of torment. From outside the fortress, it would be safe for them to travel on foot, for now. Of course, if Those Who Slithered in the Dark had detected their presence, that would be another matter entirely.

Hubert attached a piece of chalk to the end of the rod, placed it on the ground, and began the walk around Arianrhod. Though it was tedious work, the completed circle would boost the analysis spells he and Linhardt intended to use on the city. He kept his other arm under his chin, holding the end of his cloak to his nose and mouth to block out some of the smoke.

A long while later, he saw Linhardt through his stinging, watering eyes at last. They connected their lines of chalk, and Hubert drew a rune to seal them together. He sat on the ground.

“I don’t suppose I could take a small nap beforehand?” Linhardt joined him, rubbing his face sleepily. “Just for five minutes—ech. Never mind, then,” he said when he saw the icy daggers in Hubert’s smoke-swollen eyes.

The dark-haired man pulled off his gloves and held out his hands. “Fret not, Linhardt. There will be plenty of time for napping...” He smirked at the glimmer of hope in the other’s eyes. “...in the grave.”

Linhardt sighed and took his hands. “If you’re there too, I doubt it.”

They closed their eyes. Hubert took a deep breath. As he exhaled, he reached out with his magic, a tendril of purple light appearing in his mind’s eye. He saw a white beam flow next to his, tinged with a bit of green. The two strains of magic traveled across the chalk line, in Arianrhod.

Hubert immediately detected the chill of dark magic in the ruins of the city. It seemed to linger in every pore of the Silver Maiden, pulsing with corrupting energy. He felt Linhardt’s hands twitch as he detected the intensity of its power.

The dark mage scanned the city, following the cold trail up into the skies overhead. The javelins of light had warped down to their deed of destruction, but Hubert could still sense a line of magic there, as thin as thread.

“Here,” he said. “This strain will lead us back to its source.”

Linhardt’s white magic rose to the line and looked it over. It moved closer to attach to it, but fell right through it.

“This isn’t going to work. It’s too faint.”

“Your lack of persistence is pitiful, von Hevring.” Hubert directed the focus of his magic onto the line. Cold met cold, and he felt a tug. His purple light secured there, he allowed his magic to follow where the line would lead. His mind’s eye vanished through the remnants of the warping spell.

Where he ended up was over a range of mountains, stark white and dark green with the dense growth of birch trees. That would mean eastern Fódlan. A river flowed above the mountains. Only one body of water was as wide: the Airmid.

“ _Hrym_ ,” Hubert thought, the realization sinking in his gut. “ _Of course they are in Hrym_.”

The sinking continued and he realized the line of magic was descending and fast, sending his purple beam hurtling down into Hrym’s easternmost peak. His body, far to the west, tensed. He did not pull back his magic; if he went where it was taking him, he would have a more precise location of Those Who Slithered in the Dark.

Hubert flinched as he felt his magic plunge into ice. He stopped being sure of what he saw—there were flashes of metallic structures, of harsh lights not powered by magic or fire, and darkness—so much darkness.

His mind’s eye suddenly found itself in the center of a glowing circle of magic. A pair of blank white eyes stared into him from above.

“What filthy Fódlan beast might you be?” Thales hissed softly, crouching down to Hubert’s ball of purple light. “Another little bird of Adrestia, perhaps? No...” He grinned, licking his teeth. “It’s Her Majesty’s pet rat, scurrying around in the shadows to do her bidding...”

Hubert pulled back with all his will, the pressure behind his eyes excruciating. He felt Linhardt’s magic buzzing on his palms, gripping ahold of him.

He gasped for air as he returned to his body. “ _Thales_.” He tried to stand but a wave of dizziness filled his vision with twinkling lights. He shuddered as a hand was pressed on his forehead and some of the pressure lifted.

Linhardt continued the flow of healing magic to his throbbing head. “You’re overcharged, Hubert. You can’t just use that much magic at once.” He removed his hand. “You really could have overdone it.”

The dark mage growled.

“I believe that is Hubert for ‘thank you’,” Ferdinand said, crouching beside him.

Hubert’s head felt far clearer now. Linhardt was a superb healer—when he was conscious. “We must report back to Her Majesty,” he said, getting up a bit more slowly. “It appears that Thales is expecting us.”

* * *

The sounds of steel hitting steel rang out in the training hall.

Byleth leapt to the right, dodging the blow of Edelgard’s axe. She swung her sword in a horizontal chop, aiming for the emperor’s ribs. The white-haired woman swiveled, meeting her blade with her shield.

“Is that all you have, my Teacher?” She shoved Byleth back with her shield and turned, bringing her axe down towards the former mercenary’s shoulder.

She grinned. The feeling of adrenaline back in her veins was glorious. When Manuela had given her the all-clear to begin training again, Byleth had nearly kissed her.

Byleth caught the handle of the axe with her sword and twisted, forcing Edelgard back. Heart pounding, she advanced, swinging her blade in a flurry of movement. Edelgard blocked the barrage, but then leaned back, leaving her left hip open. Byleth plunged her sword forward...

A burst of pain shot through her. Byleth’s hesitation was for the briefest moment, but it was long enough for Edelgard to hit the sword of out her hands with her shield.

She kicked her sword across the training ground floor, bringing her hands to her face. From her very earliest memories, fighting had always been so easy for her.

“The kid’s a real demon with that thing,” Jeralt would say to the other mercenaries they met on their travels, beaming with pride. “That sword is her soul.”

Byleth might have gained a heartbeat, but had she lost her soul?

“If your strength does not return at its fullest, so be it,” El said, putting a firm hand on her shoulder. “But do not wallow in self-pity for even a moment. It does not suit you.”

She nodded and picked up her discarded blade, observing her smudged face reflected in the steel.

“Your Majesty.” An Imperial servant entered the hall and bowed. “Lords Hubert, Ferdinand, and Linhardt have returned.”

Edelgard unfastened the practice armor from her shoulders. “Good. I will see them at once.”

They met in Her Majesty’s chambers, gathering around the long table which held her map of Fódlan. Hubert chose the place beside Byleth and immediately began his report. He subtly glided his fingers down her arm as he pointed to eastern part of the continent.

“Those Who Slither in the Dark are hidden away under the mountains of Hrym,” Hubert said, sliding his glove to the peak nearest the coast. “However, it appears that Thales foresaw our ability to pinpoint Shambala’s location. ” He stroked his chin. “It is almost certain that Those Who Slither in the Dark will be fully prepared for our attack. We will not have the advantage of a stealthy invasion.”

Byleth recalled Jeritza in the cathedral, still as stone. So there had been a purpose in capturing the adopted heir of the territory. Her stomach twisted. Jeritza’s death had been nothing more than a clue in Thales’ game, a suggestion to lead them right into his hands. Mercedes must have tried to aid her long lost half-brother, only to follow him to her death instead.

“Very well.” Edelgard cast her arm out in front of her. “Then we will charge through their gates without hesitation. They must be brought to justice. For their generations of atrocities. For the ones we loved that they have stolen from us. For a Fódlan that will not be puppeted by above or below—a Fódlan that will be free to rule itself.”

“I am awed by the heights of your ambitions,” Hubert said, bowing deeply. “But Your Majesty, I must insist that you remain on the throne. The state of the Empire, as you are aware, is still fragile. The people must bear witness as you illuminate Fódlan with your Imperial light.” He held his hand to his heart. “I ask that you permit me to fight this war in the darkness in Your Majesty’s stead.”

Edelgard considered this a moment, then nodded. “Then the Black Eagle Strike Force shall accompany you to Shambhala at dawn.” She took a final glance at the map and rolled it up. “I urge for you all to rest until then. You must have all of your strength for this fight.” Her last words were accompanied by a particularly stern glance at Hubert.

As they exited the chambers, Hubert pulled her away with him off to the side and pressed her against one of the marble pillars with a kiss. She melted into him, the ball of frustration from the training grounds easing in her stomach. He cupped her chin in a gloved hand, green eyes looking deep into hers.

“I missed your company on the road,” he said, giving her another quick peck on the lips. “And yet, you have somehow grown even more beautiful during my absence.”

Byleth shivered, enjoying how her betrothed seemed to be becoming more comfortable with expressing his affections. “And I missed you, Hue.” She lifted her hand to his cheek. The shadows under his eyes seemed deeper. “Let’s return to our chambers. We should follow Edelgard’s orders and rest.”

“Indeed. However, the evening is still young.” Hubert took her hand from his cheek and kissed her palm. “Before we retire, I would be honored if you would accompany me into town for dinner.”

They changed into evening clothes—Byleth into a dark blue dress with flowered lace on its sides, Hubert into a black shirt and trousers accompanied with the deep purple cloak she had seen in their closet. They walked down to the river, to a bustling street that ran parallel to the waters. At a small restaurant at the end of the way, they sipped red wine, bitter and brimming with the flavors of dark fruits. The food was simple but elegant. Byleth ate her herb and almond-crusted fish with gusto, the subtle flavors enhancing the sweetness of the tender fish. Over his meal of steak tartare—which, to Byleth’s delight—he seemed to eat with discernable pleasure—Hubert recounted his journey to Arianrhod and the strange things that awaited them in Shambhala.

As they shared spoonfuls of chocolate mousse, Byleth looked out the window to watch a group of Enbarreans heading down the road. One woman held a basket filled with stars, their shapes folded from bright green paper.

“The next moon will soon be upon us. They will be on their way to the cathedral to celebrate the appearance of the Blue Sea Star,” Hubert said, following her gaze. “Heh. They envision the Goddess in the sky out of desperation, for the thought of her watching from above is far easier to believe than the truth—that she has abandoned them.”

She thought of the collections of Church tomes scattered through his home, of the images of the Goddess that had hung over the head of each child of House Vestra.

“You speak from experience.”

Hubert grimaced. “Yes.” He had another sip of wine, taking a moment before he swallowed. “Regrettably, there was a time that even I believed in the Church’s lies.”

Byleth heard the venom dripping from his tongue. “What happened?”

“It’s a long tale. But I will tell you if you wish to hear it.”

She put her hand on his wrist, stroking the skin under his glove with her thumb. “Please.”

Hubert let out a long sigh, his pale green eyes flicking back out the window. He began:

“When I was a boy of six, I was placed in charge of Lady Edelgard’s care. I was far too young then to comprehend the responsibilities that such a role required. But even so, I took it on without question. I had no concept of the importance of House Vestra’s legacy, or much of devotion. I only knew how important it was to my father.

It might be difficult to fathom now, but at first I found serving Lady Edelgard to be a chore. At four years old she couldn’t read, or play chess, or converse about much of anything I found interesting. Any toy of mine that she liked I had to give to her—So many of my books were sacrificed to her to color on with the most hideous drawings. And the questions…she would ask me the most nonsensical questions all day, and I would have to answer them with endless patience.

“The Goddess is always watching,” my father would warn me, “If you make a mistake, she will tell me. But if you fail your duty, even I will not be able to save you from her wrath. The earth will swallow you up and you will suffer in darkness for eternity. ” The prospect of such a fate terrified me to my very core.

There were many books about the Goddess at the palace. The text was often too advanced for a child my age, but I would leaf through them anyway, curious about what the Goddess might do to me if I failed Lady Edelgard. The illustrations presented my young mind with a gallery of divine nightmares. People burnt to ash, chewed up and vomited up by beasts, possessed by demons, flesh warped by plague—each picture of the Goddess’ punishments was more horrible than the next. I couldn’t look away. And so I served Lady Edelgard loyally, compelled by my fear.

Then I turned seven and learned I could hold darkness in my hands.

I tried to keep serving Lady Edelgard with the same dedication, but it was no use. She would ask me question after question about the purple energy I would conjure and my concentration would break. Inevitably, my curiosity about my growing skills overtook my fear of damnation. For just a moment each day, I would leave Lady Edelgard in her room alone so I could practice my magic in peace.

But one day, she followed me. Drawn to the strange light, she reached into it. There was no point in attempting to hide the poisonous burn on her hand. I told my father immediately of what I had done.

That night, my father brought me to Enbarr Cathedral. “Go and pray to the Goddess for forgiveness,” he commanded. “Pray that she does not damn you to an eternity without her light.”

I went in, alone. To my young eyes, the cathedral was massive. Statues of saints and holy figures towered over me. I kneeled down, the marble cold on my knees. I started to pray. But then, I heard the whispering. It was quiet at first, so quiet that I swore it was my imagination. Louder and steadily louder, the voices grew, surrounding me. Slowly, I opened my eyes. The painted figures on the stained glass windows stared down, their iron-wrought eyes cold and empty. They passed their judgement upon me:

_“Fool. Incompetent. Failure. Unlovable. Unforgiveable.”_

I ran to the doors to escape, but they were locked. I screamed for the Goddess to help me, for my father, for anyone. Nobody came. The voices whispered louder and louder, insults layering into such a cacophony that the words lost their meaning. I curled on the floor with my hands over my ears. I waited for the earth to crack open and swallow me up into the darkness. I awaited my damnation.

It was then that I saw from the moonlight’s glare a shadow projected on the window. Not of some beast, nor of a vengeful ghost. It seemed...human. Mustering up every ounce of my courage, I crept to the entrance of the cathedral and pressed my eye to the crack in the door.

Out at the end of the road was a tall figure, white light pouring from his swaying hands. I could read the words on his lips.

_“Fool. Incompetent. Failure. Unloveable. Unforgiveable.”_

It was my father.

The Goddess had not come to damn me to some divine punishment. The Goddess had never been watching at all. It had been nothing more than a mortal man punishing his son with fear. It had all been an illusion.

It was the first of many instances when witnessing my father’s pathetic nature taught me the strength of my own volition. I would not have been able to truly devote myself to Lady Edelgard if I had chosen to do so blinded by fear. Ultimately, I made the choice to serve Her Majesty of my own free will—and my will alone.”

“Hue...” Byleth wove her fingers with Hubert’s. His hands shook just slightly, as if telling the story had released a great pressure he had held inside him for a long time. “I’m so sorry. That kind of betrayal must have been awful.”

Hubert shrugged. “On the contrary. It was an invaluable lesson.” He smirked. “That is why I have little pity for the followers of the Goddess. They would rather believe in lies than learn to rely on themselves.”

She saw another trail of people pass by, holding their paper stars. Long before she had even heard of Sothis or the Church, Byleth had relied on the Goddess too. Without knowing it, the Crest Stone embedded in her heart had been the source of her power.

She inhaled, concentrating on the beating of her heart rather than the ache within it. There was no use in grieving the loss of something that had never truly been hers. The new weakness of her body with its aches and pains—that was her. Hubert was right. She needed to learn to rely on her own strength now.

“But enough about me,” The dark-haired man said, rising from the table. “I have something for you.”

Hubert took her down the road for several buildings farther. He stopped in front of an empty alleyway drowned in shadows.

“Are you finally going to eliminate me?” Byleth snorted as she followed him into the alley. “What a sweet surprise!”

“No, my love.” The mage snapped his fingers, bringing magic to his palm to illuminate their way. He grinned, his cheekbones sharpened by the light below his face. “Not yet.”

A bit further, they came to a nondescript wooden door. Hubert knocked. A pair of bright blue eyes appeared from the slot in the door and spotted the mage.

“Minister Vestra!” the portly, blue-eyed man exclaimed as the door clicked open. “A pleasure to see you as always. Do come in.” He gave Byleth a rosy-cheeked nod, then gestured for them to follow.

Through the door was a dimly-lit shop. A cabinet on one side was filled with bottles of all shapes and sizes and colors of contents. Weapons were hung on the other wall, some that even she had never encountered before.

The shopkeeper tucked behind the counter and brought up a dark leather box. He opened the lid briefly, for Hubert’s eyes only. “Just as you requested, sir.”

“You never fail me, Alastair,” Hubert said, placing a bag of gold on the counter with a clink. “You have my gratitude.”

Hubert turned and held the box out to her. Byleth accepted it, feeling the smooth leather of the case in her hands. “When I asked for your hand, I never brought you a suitor’s gift,” he said, his gaze soft. “I hope that this will amend that.”

She opened the box and inhaled sharply. Inside was a pair of daggers. The grips were decorated with shimmering mother-of-pearl. The silver blades were covered in intricate patterns, inlaid with gold. One blade was thinner than the other, only the width of a feather.

“Hue,” Byleth breathed, “They’re beautiful. Thank you.”

“They will become even more so in your skilled hands.” Hubert said as he bent down and kissed her on the forehead. He stepped back, a sparkle in his green eyes. “Well? Shall we test them out?”

At the back of the shop was a training room. A few straw-filled dummies were propped up on posts, covered in patches from use. Byleth took the daggers from the box and held them in her palms. Compared to her sword, they felt like air in her grasp.

“Have you been trained to fight with the dagger?” Hubert asked.

“Not really.” Byleth often carried a simple dagger on her belt, but she had only used it for occasional close-range emergencies if her sword had been hit out of her grasp.

“Then I have the rare pleasure of being your instructor. Though I have no doubt that you’ll learn quickly.” Hubert took the wider one, turning it in his hand. “This one is most similar to your sword. Effective for slashing and stabbing. However, precision is key. You must aim for your target’s weak points with purpose.”

“Simple enough.” She held up the other weapon with its needle-thin blade. “And this?”

“This,” he said with relish, “is for more delicate work.” Hubert took the blade and felt the tip of it with his gloved finger. He turned and placed the blade near the top of his spine, at an angle under the base of his skull. “If you sneak behind your target and pierce through this spot, they will die in an instant. Without pain.”

Byleth felt her heart skip when she saw the artful way in which he handled the dagger. She wondered how many of those who posed a threat to Edelgard had died from such a blade. Before they could sense the man looming behind them, there would be one small pinch in the neck and they would know nothing more. There were countless ways to kill, and yet he seemed to view such a quick method of dealing death with tenderness. “You’re a more merciful man than you get credit for.”

“Hardly,” he muttered, handing her back the daggers. Hubert took his own blade from his belt. “I’ve lectured enough. Let’s spar.”

They dipped their blades in the bucket of dulling potion by the door. Byleth sheathed the thinner dagger in her boot, and readied the wider in her hand.

She raised her eyebrow as Hubert tucked the dagger back into his belt. “Aren’t you going to fight back?”

“Certainly.” He smirked, putting his hands behind his back. “If you can hit me.”

Byleth laughed. “Is that a challenge, Vestra?” She flipped the dagger in her hand. “No magic.”

He held up his hands in faux offense. “Am I the kind to resort to devious trickery?”

Byleth answered with a diagonal swipe of the dagger. Hubert stepped aside before it could touch him. She moved in a forward thrust towards his chest. He grabbed her wrist to stop its movement.

“Your movements are far too obvious,” he said, dodging another swipe to his shoulder. “Remember—The dagger is about precision, not power.”

 _Precision_. Rather than making another move, she waited and observed. She noted the movements of the mage’s chest as he breathed. She saw the way he leaned the weight of his body a bit more on his right foot. She gripped the dagger and sped forward to Hubert’s right. Just as he leaned back to the left, she switched directions and darted to his left. She turned behind him and brought the dagger to his throat.

“Fine work.” Hubert pulled out his dagger and grinned. “Let us begin.”

The mage—with his height advantage and long arms—was difficult to strike when he came after her with his blade. After he gave her a few dull jabs, Byleth found that the best technique was to dodge and wait until she spotted an opening. Soon enough, she found a rhythm to the combat.

“How does this feel?” Hubert asked as she danced around the strikes of his dagger.

She ducked under his arm and brought the blade to his heart. “Good.”

It did. There had been several moments when the Crest pain shot through her limbs, but it had been so minor that she barely thought of it. The light weight of the daggers seemed to strain her muscles less, and the calculated movements of the combat were more alike to Manuela’s stretches than swordplay. It was a different form of fighting, but it still gave her that wonderful buzz of adrenaline in her head and a glow in her chest. She felt strong.

“Good.” Hubert stepped back and readied his blade once again. “You are as magnificent to watch as the first day we met.”

He went for her throat and she crouched, sending her dagger upwards to his chest. Hubert pushed her arm aside and pressed her against the wall. The grip slipped from her fingers and he confiscated her weapon. _Damn_. She was going to accept the loss of this round, but then she thought to glance down. Though he kept his dagger on his hip, she spotted something off about the front of his belt. The front section of metal ornamentation was at a different angle from the others—only slightly. She reached down and pulled out the small hidden knife and pointed it to his neck. A pin-sized drop of blood oozed from his skin where she nicked it.

“Impressive,” he murmured, releasing her from the wall. He sheathed his dagger and returned hers.

Byleth wiped the miniature blade on her dress and snapped it back in his belt. As she did so, she tucked her finger around the waist of his trousers. She felt him shudder as she slid her finger through the opening in his tucked-in shirt to feel the warm skin of his abdomen.

Hubert gripped her around her hips and pushed her up against the wall, kissing her roughly on the mouth. She wrapped her legs around him and gasped as she felt her stomach turn over. The room flashed purple as they warped, the hard brick of the wall melting into the soft plush of their bed.

He was on top of her then, the cloak on his wide shoulders draping her in shadow. She moaned in his mouth as he ground his hips between her legs. His kisses moved from her lips to down her cheek. She squirmed with pleasure as he bit her ear.

“Byleth...” he whispered. The words—hot in her ear—made her hips quiver against his.

She pushed his hand to her inner thigh, exposed by her hiked-up dress.

Hubert rolled to her side and slid his hand up her dress. She gasped as his gloved finger slowly traced her mound through her underclothes. He kissed and nibbled at her neck as he continued teasing her with his light touches between her legs.

“Hue, please...” She squeezed her thighs around his hand, desperate for more.

He sat up and pulled off his gloves slowly, tormenting her with his green-eyed gaze. Not breaking his stare, he brought his first two fingers to his lips and wet them with his tongue. She lifted up her hips and kicked off her underclothes as he brought his damp touch between her thighs.

Hubert watched her as his fingers glided along her folds—then smiled as she took a sharp intake of breath when he found her clit. Byleth felt a wave of hot pleasure as he circled it. She reached over to his lap, grasping for the front of his trousers.

“Patience,” the mage scolded, swatting her hand away playfully, “Allow me to torture you a bit longer.”

With that, the tips of his fingers glowed purple. Byleth let out a moan from her very core as the cool buzz of his magic flooded into her clit. She bucked her hips into his hands as he stroked her, unable to hold back her panting.

“ _Hubert_ ,” she whined, her toes curling as a great pressure built between her thighs.

Just as she was about to reach her peak, Hubert removed his touch. She growled at him. He moved between her legs and leaned over to smirk down at her. Slowly—maddeningly slowly—he undid his belt and unbuttoned his tightened trousers.

Byleth bit her lip as Hubert pulled out his cock. It was much larger than she had anticipated on his thin body, its color the same blushed shade as his cheeks.

“Is there something you want, love?” He purred, teasing the tip against her entrance. He was having far too much fun watching her squirm.

“You,” Byleth said thickly, moving her hips in frustration.

Hubert raised a thin eyebrow. “What precisely?”

He had tormented her long enough. “Revenge,” Byleth grinned.

She sat up and pushed Hubert onto his back. She moved to his hips and pulled down his trousers further. It was his turn to squirm as she took his cock in her mouth. She bobbed up and down, grasping the bottom of his shaft. He moaned deeply as she lapped her tongue against his tip, tasting the musk and salt of his skin. Just as he began panting her name and bucking his hips with her movements, she pulled away.

Hubert crawled on top of her again, lust thick in his green eyes. He kissed her roughly, sticking his tongue deep in her mouth. She lifted her hips as he brought his erection to her aching entrance.

“Byleth,” he said, his voice thick with restrained desire, “Have you done this before?”

She shook her head. “Have you?”

The mage shook his head. “Never this far.” He kissed her, tenderly this time. “I am honored to be your first.”

Byleth exhaled as he entered her, partway at first. Once the sting of discomfort had passed, he filled her completely. Her gasps and moans grew as Hubert thrust into her, never looking away from her. Slowly, the pressure in between her legs grew, warm and aching as the feeling in her chest at she gazed up at her love. He was beautiful, like moonlight casting shadows as it pierced through a dark wood.

She gripped her legs around his hips as she came, moaning his name as her body shuddered. Her climax sent him into his own, the mage’s hips bucking as he spilled his seed deep inside her.

They slept—wrapped around each other—until morning came. Under a dawn sky soaked in scarlet, their ride to Shambhala began.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I can't believe we're halfway through this story already! This chapter ended up being longer than expected, but it was the most fun to write so far for sure. Thank so much to everyone who has continued to read!


	4. Chapter 4

On the third day of the ride northeast, the golden fields of Gronder wheat were replaced by birches. The forest—with the sharp whites and greens of its trees—grew steadily taller as the land rose up into mountains.

A fluttering of wings shook the bushes by their path.

“A grouse!” Ferdinand exclaimed. The red grouse strutted in front of their horses, then opened its wings in display.

“Will you be liking it for the lunch?” Petra asked, setting an arrow on her bow. Upon receiving Hubert’s raven, the Brigid princess had sailed back to Fódlan immediately in anticipation of the battle with Those Who Slithered in the Dark.

Bernadetta squealed. “D-do you have to?” After the proud recluse had not responded to Hubert’s request for her to travel to Enbarr, Byleth had sent one of her own, guised as an invitation for her to come and view the palace’s man-eating plant. Bernadetta had only realized that she had been deceived when Byleth led her to the mess hall to watch Caspar eat a plate of greens.

Ferdinand shook his head. “Do not kill this bird, Petra!” The grouse made a circle, quivering its wings in its dance. “What a noble creature. Is it not magnificent, Hubert?”

Byleth grinned, excitedly awaiting the mage’s response. The grouse—with its strutting and the orange tufts of plumage on its head—had somewhat of a resemblance to the paladin. She anticipated that Hubert’s retort would be absolutely brutal.

“Hm?” Hubert glanced over slowly as if he had been deep in thought. Then, to her shock, he smiled. “The bird? Magnificent. Quite.”

Bernadetta screamed. The grouse flapped away into the trees.

“You okay, Hubert?” Caspar squinted at the mage. “You hit your head or something?”

“Have I—No! You are one to talk, von Bergliez,” Hubert growled. “I am in a pleasant mood. That is all.”

“HUBERT IS POSSESSED!” Bernadetta shrieked, moving her horse away from him. “I knew this would happen. I knew it. I knew it.”

Dorothea leaned in through the chaos. “Hubie seems happy. Both of you do.” She sighed, brushing through her chestnut hair. “This opera of ours has had far too many deaths and too few happy endings. It’ll be so nice to have a wedding after the war is finally over.”

“It will be,” Byleth smiled, reaching over to give the songstress’ hand a squeeze.

Inevitably, it had not taken long on their journey for the rest of the Strike Force to be informed of Byleth and Hubert’s engagement. As it always had been, gossip flew quickly amongst the former Black Eagles. Bernadetta was the last to learn the nature of their relationship, a fact that she discovered accidentally one night after she’d found a particularly nice hollowed-out stump to isolate in away from the campsite. Byleth and Hubert had snuck away into the forest for some private time—time that had been very enjoyable—until Bernadetta had jumped out and hit Hubert with a stick, convinced that he had been eating her poor professor. She had not been wrong.

Byleth watched Hubert with the others, their bantering nearly reminiscent of how the Black Eagles had once been at the Officers Academy. However, their armor and the invisible stains on their steel told the truth of the times they were in. There would be a time for weddings—she wished for that dearly—but that time was not now.

Ferdinand was walking Bernadetta through a deep breathing exercise to calm her from her ramblings on Hubert’s demonic possession when the mage clamped his hand on her mouth. She let out a muffled screech.

“ _Quiet!_ ” Hubert hissed. He looked through the trees that surrounded their path. The forest was silent but for the rustling of leaves in the breeze. “...Perhaps I was mistaken. I thought I heard—“

There was a gurgling noise deeper in the forest. In a circle farther down the path, an inky substance oozed up from the dirt. An armored head rose up from the earth.

Hubert cursed as a heavily armored body and horse followed the head. “It appears that Thales wishes to dispose of us long before we reach the gates of Shambhala.”

A pair of dark-clad gremories warped to flank the great knight. The knight raised his axe above his head, its blade sparking with electricity. Byleth jumped from her horse and unsheathed her dagger.

Heat warmed Byleth’s face as Dorothea sent a meteor hurtling at the knight. The gremories protected him, brushing away the projectile into nothingness with ease. Byleth sprinted towards one of them, dodging a burst of flames conjured up by the witch. She aimed for the gremory’s throat with her blade but missed, a flash of fire from the woman’s fingers blinding her vision. The gremory yelped as an arrow buried itself in her shoulder.

“GO AWAY GO AWAY GO AWAY!” Bernadetta cried out as she sent another arrow into the witch’s arm. Byleth finished the job with a slash to the gremory’s neck.

To her left, the other gremory was on her knees, clutching at her throat as Hubert sent waves of Miasma into her lungs. Caspar defeated her with a hit to her ribs with his gauntlets. The others were in pursuit of the great knight as he circled, swinging his bolt axe.

“Linhardt!” Ferdinand shouted, gripping his reins. “You must spot me.” He gave his horse a kick and galloped towards the great knight, lance at his side. The knight readied his axe as the paladin sped towards him. Just as Ferdinand was in his reach, Linhardt warped him so that the paladin hit the great knight from behind instead.

The lance sent the knight flying from his horse—he landed on the forest floor with the screech of metal scraping metal. His helmet was askew as he rose. Petra leapt at him, cutting his head from his exposed neck with a swipe of her assassin’s blade.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Caspar said, cleaning off his gauntlets. He stopped mid-wipe. “Hey. What’s with the trees?”

Byleth turned. All along the path behind them, leaves were falling from the birches. They crumbled into dust as they hit the forest floor. The moss faded to grey—the flowers lost their colors and dried. A sour taste filled her mouth.

“On your horses. Go!”

She leapt back onto her steed and sent it into a gallop. The forest withered behind the Strike Force as they sped forward, death chasing after them. Byleth heard Hubert curse as they were forced off the path.

“Thales is leading us to exactly where he wants us,” she called to him as they fled deeper into the mountains.

Hubert’s jaw was clenched tight. “Precisely.”

“Ugh,” Dorothea complained, holding her nose, “What is that awful smell?”

There was a stench in the air of rot and iron. They rode on until they came to a small opening in the mountain—wide enough for a person to fit through but nothing more. Light and the foul smell leaked out from within.

The forest continued to die around them. There was nowhere else to go but in. They dismounted, leaving their horses in the mouth of the cave. Byleth hoped that the death spreading in the trees would spare them there.

Byleth gagged and covered her nose with her sleeve as they entered into the mountain. Even a few feet through the gates, the air around them was thick and stagnant. Strange dim lights lit the path from where they had been embedded into the walls. The light seemed to come neither from fire nor from magic—it instead seemed sourced from a glowing, non-magical gas.

“I thought that Shambhala was to be farther east?” Ferdinand wondered up at the high ceiling carved out of dark rock.

“If Shambhala spans below the entirety of these mountains,” Hubert growled, “Those Who Slither in the Dark’s numbers could be far greater than we realized.”

Byleth could hear in the mage’s voice what he did not say out loud. If Those Who Slithered in the Dark could hide unnoticed under an entire mountain range in Hrym, it was possible that all of Fódlan had Slithers living in its depths.

They went on through the passage until it widened into a vast chamber. They could go no further—a manmade wall blocked their way. Imprinted onto it was an insignia that they had seen before: a single eye surrounded by metal-like circles and curves. The mark of Those Who Slither in the Dark.

Suddenly, the ground began to shake. They turned around too late to see another wall slide into place near the mouth of the cave. The sounds began—sounds of piercing screeching that echoed through the hall. Before she could bring her hands to her ears, she gripped her blade. Towering metal guards warped in around them, great swords of light grasped in their unliving hands.

“ _Titanus_ ,” Hubert breathed as the army of machines surrounded them.

Byleth rushed to the Titanus nearest to him. She slashed at the wires in its legs with difficulty as she dodged the swings of its sword. However, her persistence was rewarded when the metal guard collapsed to its knees. Hubert sent globs of Mire in through the cracks of its armor. It shook as the poisonous sludge short-circuited its mechanisms. Byleth pressed her back against Hubert’s, defending his blind spot while he continued corrupting the machine with his spells.

Other Titanus suffered similar fates as the Strike Force pummeled the machines with might and magic. After the first one fell, however, another warped in its place. Then another. And another.

They had brought down half a dozen Titanus when they began to tire. Replacements warped in without end. She saw Hubert began to glance around him rather than fight the guards, as if he were searching for an exit or some hidden trick.

“We must not fall here,” Hubert said, so softly that she almost didn’t hear. “I will not fail Her Majesty.”

Another Titanus warped in front of them. It loomed over, its sword glowing red. Byleth leaped forward, slicing through its wiring with her tired arms. She lifted her shield to block a blow of its sword. A pulse of Crest pain shot through her, bringing tears to her eyes. The machine aimed for her once again.

Suddenly, a lance sprouted from the Titanus’ chest. Its end buzzed with magic. The lance was yanked out and the Titanus fell, mechanical limbs seizing wildly.

“With me!” A woman’s voice commanded in a smooth alto. The lance wielder was dressed in a dark flowing garment, her face covered by a grey veil. She pointed her lance to one of the cavern walls. “Quickly now!”

“Wait!” Hubert warned as the Strike Force went to follow the woman. “This may be the next trial in Thales’ game.”

“You have little choice,” the lance wielder gestured to the Titanus approaching around them. “Now come!”

She pressed her hand to the stone. Her fingers glowed violet and it moved as if it had been a sliding door. The Strike Force followed after the woman through the wall. Byleth touched Hubert’s arm softly as they ducked into a thin tunnel. He gave her a stiff smile, keeping his hand at the ready to unsheathe his dagger if needed.

Her ears popped as they wandered on. Byleth had no idea of what direction they were going, but she was certain that they were descending. To her relief and surely everyone else’s, the foul smell that had lingered in the first part of the cavern slowly dissipated.

“You know, it’s kinda nice in here,” Bernadetta said as they walls came closer to their sides. “If I got lost in here I don’t think anyone would find me! Ever!”

“You would not think it so nice for very long, I assure you,” The lance wielder said from ahead of them. “These tunnels were not made for the living.”

Finally they came to a grate, greenish light pouring through it. The veiled woman opened this as she had the door. The Strike Force gasped as they saw what was beyond it. They were within a vast cavern, its floors lush with moss. As far as Byleth could see, buildings made of metal were lined along the cave walls. Down below, she could spot Slithers walking down stone-paved roads lit by more of those odd dim lamps. If she had squinted, Byleth would have thought that she was looking at any other city in Fódlan.

“An underground civilization,” Linhardt said softly. “These lights—and the architecture. They’re unlike anything I’ve ever read about.”

The woman hurried them into the shadows. “There is no time for idling. You must hide.” She gestured to them to follow her into one of the nearby houses.

The inside of the house was as much like one in Fódlan as the city had been. A fireplace crackled by a pair of comfy chairs. A kitchen was attached to the living room, a cup of tea sitting abandoned on a counter shaped from metal.

The lance wielder took one last look outside, then closed the door behind them. “Thales will not find you here,” she sighed, leaning her lance against the kitchen table. “At least for now.” She took off her veil.

The woman looked to be of middle age, her skin the deathly chalk white of a Slither. Her long dark curls were a harsh contrast to her pale flesh. Byleth felt odd as she looked at her, a nudge of something in the back of her mind. With her strong cheekbones and deep set eyes, she seemed so much like—

Hubert leaped forward and grabbed the woman by the throat. He held his dagger to her neck. “Thales is a fool,” he hissed, “if he believes that I would show mercy to a Slither with my mother’s image.”

 _Mother?_ She could barely comprehend the meaning of the word as her head grew foggy with shock. It couldn’t be true. Hubert had told her his mother had died long ago. This could only be another of the imposters created by the Slithers.

Before Byleth could take out her weapon, there was a flash of purple. Hubert yelped as he was thrown back. The woman grabbed her lance and pointed it at him. “Stay back,” she directed, aiming her glowing hand towards the rest of them.

“Slithers!” she said sharply. “Is that what you call the people of Agartha? Our people have lived in this world for millennia—far longer than the surface dwellers.” She gave the air in Hubert’s direction a jab. “Take some pride in your bloodline, _little slither_.”

“Your attempts at deception are pathetic,” Hubert said coldly. “The Empire never would have permitted the Minister of the Imperial Household to couple with your kind. The mere thought is laughable.”

“The light on the surface has blinded you to reality.” She reached her hand to Hubert, palm buzzing with violet light. “Here.”

“Fine.” Watching her with suspicion, he reached out his hand. Their magic touched. He inhaled sharply, his eyes wide. Ice shot through Byleth’s spine as she saw the realization hit him.

“That cannot be,” she heard Ferdinand gasp. The reactions of the others in the Strike Force were muted by the dizziness in her head.

The woman lowered her lance. “Now do you understand?”

As soon as the weapon was placed down, Byleth rushed to Hubert. His limbs were like stone as she helped him up. The mage’s mouth was twisted so tightly that his lips were white. He looked like he was going to be sick.

Hubert’s mother stepped closer, her pale yellow eyes softening. “My son, there is so much I have to tell you—“

“We must defeat Thales,” Hubert’s voice was so low it was nearly a whisper. He spoke slowly, as if one wrong word would silence him completely. “Unless you can provide us a way to root out Those Who Slither in the Dark, there is nothing more to be said.”

The woman peered up at him. “I know a great deal about Thales. And even better,” her lips lifted into a slight smirk, “I despise him.” She took another step towards Hubert. She was no taller than Byleth, but each movement of her limbs carried with it a commanding presence. “I will help you. All that I ask in return is that you listen to what I have long waited to share with you.”

Hubert’s brow furrowed. He exhaled after a moment. “Very well.” As the mage nodded, the room was filled with the clinking and sliding sounds of weaponry being sheathed.

“Let’s try again from the beginning,” the woman said, extending her hands to Byleth. “I am Pythia.”

Byleth noted the scars of dark magic on Pythia’s hands. The marks in her flesh were deeply ingrained, as dark as a bruise. This close to Hubert’s mother, Byleth could smell a nutty scent coming from her dark curls—perhaps an oil brushed through them to give them their shine. Tentatively, she took her hands. “I’m Byleth.”

“So you are.” There was a hint of recognition in Pythia’s yellow eyes, but she moved on to the others.

“Ferdinand,” the paladin introduced himself next.

“von Aegir?”

“Y-yes!”

“You look so much like Ludwig,” Pythia said, squeezing his hands in greeting. “He had as much hair as you when I met him.” She took an orange lock in her fingers. “A pity it all fell out the same year. How old are you?”

Ferdinand looked a bit flustered. “I am twenty-four.”

“Ah...poor dear.”

All the blood drained from the paladin’s face at the implication of her words.

While Pythia introduced herself to each member of the Black Eagle Strike Force, Byleth looked back up at Hubert. He avoided her eye contact, concentrating instead on brushing the dirt from his gloves. She gently touched his back. He leaned in to her touch but still did not meet her eyes.

After Pythia had finished meeting them all, she went over to the kitchen. “As you are staying in my home, I would be grateful for your assistance.” She opened a drawer. “If you would, please—“

“—stand still so you can kill us all?” Bernadetta squeaked as Pythia pulled out a knife.

“—help make our evening meal...” Pythia looked down. “...This is a butter knife. I can kill you with this, but you will have to stand still for a very long time.”

The shy sniper ran off to hide in a bin of potatoes.

“Gather a dozen of those while you’re there,” the woman said, her shoulders shaking. Her laughter sent Bernadetta deeper into the potatoes.

Soon enough, Bernadetta, Petra, and Caspar were busily chopping away in the kitchen—they cut up turnips and potatoes and thinly sliced up an enormous mushroom Pythia had found growing on the cave wall. Dorothea and Ferdinand gathered enough seats for them all and set the table, placing a bouquet of ferns at its center for a touch of elegance.

Linhardt—who had miraculously found a chair to nap in the midst of the chaos—was shaken awake by Hubert’s mother. “I will not have surface dwellers lazing about in my house,” she growled as he eyed her sleepily. “Go on. Get up. Get up! Make yourself useful.”

“I see you inherited the Crest of Pain-in-the-Ass from her,” he yawned at Hubert as he passed by.

The mage didn’t even smirk. His arms were crossed stiffly across his body as Pythia began to speak to him. She could not make much out of the conversation, but whatever she told him made him stare so intensely at his boots that Byleth half-expected them to melt. She could sense the darkness swirling in his head from across the room, deep enough to make her chest ache. She wanted to go to him—but his mother had insisted that she speak with her son alone.

The front door cracked, and a young boy peeked in, carrying a pile of books. His head was a mess of dark curls. “Mother?” He glanced at them warily.

“Lucan,” Pythia called out to him from the living room. “We have some visitors. Would you go to the moss field and bring us something nice for our meal?”

“Okay.” He put his books on the counter. The top one was titled _A Treatise on Putrefaction for Beginners_. The boy ran outside. A few minutes later, he came back in through the door, struggling to hold a furry animal nearly as big as he was.

Byleth grabbed the creature by its back feet to aid Lucan. With its long snout, the animal seemed to be an unusually large mole. It appeared to be rather old: its brown coat was flecked with grey and its tiny eyes were a milky white. They carried the beast to the back of the kitchen.

Lucan sat and put it in his lap. The creature sniffed his tunic curiously. He put his hand on the mole. “Help me pray, okay?”

Byleth sat across from him. “Pray?” She looked at the mole then back to Lucan with confusion.

“Of course.” The boy petted the mole’s head. “He’s lived a long life. We have to be sure he gets to Thinis.”

 _Thinis_. The name buzzed in her brain with a hint of recognition, but she couldn’t place it. The boy saw the look on her face.

“Thinis? The Land of the Enlightened? We lived there a long time ago, before the False God came and sent us down here. Now we have to wait until we die to go home again.” He smirked. She spotted his resemblance to Hubert immediately. “But everyone knows that. Have you been living on the surface or something?”

Byleth felt the memory return to her. That’s why the name had sounded familiar. There had been an abandoned text in the Abyss library that had told a similar tale. If the Church had disposed of the text, she could assume that this “False God” had been some form of the Goddess. That thought made her feel strange—a clenching in the depths of her stomach.

She was brought from her thoughts as Lucan’s hand glowed purple. His eyes were tightly shut in thought. The mole put its head down as if it were going to sleep.

“Thank you,” Lucan said to the still animal. Byleth thanked it as well.

She had seen Hubert kill countless enemies with dark magic. Many of these spells caused the bodies of his victims to react in strange and frightening ways as he took their lives—but these deaths matched the chaos and brutality they all dealt in on the battlefield. Instead, the Agarthan boy made dark magic seem like a gentle hand, guiding life to death with mercy.

* * *

Byleth took a long inhale of the warm vapors coming from the pot in front of her. The soup was thick and smelled rich and savory with a burst of tartness. She spooned a ladleful into her bowl, making sure to get chunks of meat and vegetables. She sat at the table next to Hubert. He seemed to be in no hurry to touch his bowl, which he had filled only slightly. She felt for his hand under the table and caught it, weaving her fingers with his. He squeezed her hand, then let go of it.

Across from her, Linhardt shuddered as he looked at the soup before him. Earlier, he had nearly fainted when Pythia had poured fresh mole blood into the dish. It had made Byleth a bit queasy as well. Hubert’s mother had mixed in vinegar and chopped dried fruit with the meat and vegetables, then finished the soup with a dollop of cream. After that, the nausea in her stomach had quickly been replaced with hungry grumbling.

“Eat,” Pythia said to Linhardt firmly, “It is safe. We have survived a long time down here by using what we have.”

Petra took a mouthful happily. “We cook a food like this in Brigid. It is made before we are fighting. It has been a long time since I am having such a dish.”

“Is that so?” Her thin eyebrows arched in surprise. “My people believe the same. Blood makes the spirit strong for battle. You will need such strength to face Thales.”

“Perhaps you would like to inform us of your relationship to Thales,” Hubert said, voice deep in his throat. “Unless we would all like to continue wallowing in suspense.”

Pythia stared at him a moment. “Lucan,” she said quietly, “Will you have your dinner in your room? We have something serious to discuss.” The young boy left the table with his bowl.

“You’re ashamed.” Hubert gave her a cold smile. “Interesting.”

“Many years ago, I was one of Thales’ most trusted warriors,” Pythia began. Hubert let out a short, icy laugh. His mother didn’t flinch. “I was young and naive. I thought that Thales would be the one to lead Agartha out of this place of darkness. I believed this with all of my being.”

Her pale yellow eyes met Hubert’s green ones. “Laugh all you wish. House Vestra was no stranger to Shambhala. For centuries, our people and the noble houses of Adrestia traded information—Houses Aegir and Vestra in particular.” It was her turn for a cold smile. “Much of your Empire’s success is due to the knowledge Agartha could provide them.”

“My father knew of this place?” Ferdinand said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“That’s ridiculous,” Hubert hissed. “Surely I would have been privy to such information.”

She continued, ignoring their interjections, “One day, Thales welcomed the new head House Vestra to Shambhala. My leader wished to demonstrate the might of his Agarthan warriors, and so he brought the marquis to our training grounds. It was there he saw me.

I could feel his captivated stare as I practiced my lancework—his wonder as I made the weapon hum with magic. He watched me for the rest of that day, transfixed. His underground visits became more frequent, even more so than those of the Prime Minister. In the time between, he sent me letters. At first, he wrote to praise my talent. Later, my beauty. Then, of his love. I never replied. The other warriors found it amusing—as did I—that this creature from the surface thought he could obtain _me_.”

Pythia looked down at her hand, tracing one of the dark scars on her palm with her thumb. “But during one of Marquis Vestra’s visits, Thales approached him with a request. Something small: that the marquis arrange a consort for the emperor. It was crucial that he make the encounter seem as if it happened by chance. Such “accidents” are how love is made, he told him. The marquis was suspicious. He questioned why Agartha would wish for a woman from Arundel of all places to be the emperor’s consort. He refused.

Then, Thales offered me.

At first I was stunned. The thought that my leader would dispose of me so easily was heartbreaking. But then I remembered my sense of duty. If Thales believed I could best serve Agartha by becoming a surface dweller’s wife, then I would do it without hesitation. The marquis accepted the deal.”

Byleth felt her skin prickle. A woman from House Arundel? _No_...She looked to Hubert. His eyes were closed now, his fingers pinching so hard between his eyes that his nails left a dent on his flesh.

“I had never been on the surface before. All of my life, I wished for nothing more than to feel the light. But when I finally went to the surface for the first time, the light hurt me. It stung my eyes and burned my skin. When I reached the marquis’ home, I was relieved to hide away again in its darkness.

I wedded him, and soon after was with child. Though I did not love him, the marquis was not unkind. Life was tolerable. That is, until I had you.”

Hubert would not meet her eyes. His gaze was distant as he stared at his soup.

“As soon as you left my womb, I wanted to be away from that unfamiliar place. I wanted to be with my people—I wanted to be home. Any light that bled in through the walls terrified me. I kept it away from you like it was a flame.

I began to try to escape. Each attempt filled the marquis with greater fury. As much as he had desired me, he adored you ten times greater. You were the heir to House Vestra and _his_ son.

But the gods were kind to me. One day, when the marquis was tending to the emperor, the head servant took pity on me and unlocked the door.”

An image of House Vestra’s head servant filled her mind. While Hubert had been in Arianrhod, Otto had come to their bedroom to take down the portrait of the marquis. She had watched him from another room as he did so. The old man had reflected on the portrait for a time. Then, before he removed it, he reached out to the likeness of Marquis Vestra, tenderness in his touch. A man with such loyalty to the marquis would not have helped his wife and heir to escape—or would he?

“As soon as I went out into the light, your face brightened.” Pythia leaned forward, her eyes soft. Though Hubert did not look up, she did not break her gaze. “I still remember it now: a flock of birds flying above us in the sky and your laughter as you reached up to them.” She sat back with a sigh heavy in her chest. “I realized that you would have what our people never could. A life up above, in the light. And so I left you.”

Byleth swallowed the lump of feeling in her throat as she saw the pain in the eyes of Hubert’s mother. “Did Marquis Vestra try to find you?”

Pythia shook her head. “The marquis never came to look for me. He never returned to Shambhala again.” She turned back to Hubert. “But I never stopped watching you grow from afar. I gathered any information on your life that I could from our people hidden in the Empire. I was so proud when I heard that you used magic. _Agarthan_ magic.”

Hubert flinched at those last words. His eyes rose at last. “How heartwarming. However, I find it difficult to see why you would aid the Empire in defeating your leader.”

His mother grimaced. “Thales and his followers are nothing but power-hungry zealots,” she said firmly. “They waste their time plotting revenge against the surface while our people starve. Our people will never have a chance to come back into the light if that cult continues to rule Agartha.”

* * *

After they had finished eating, the Strike Force worked together to clean up from their meal. Ferdinand was arms-deep in soapy water as he scrubbed their dishes to perfection. He handed them off to Bernadetta to dry, then to Dorothea to put away into the kitchen’s metal cabinets. They worked in silence, Pythia’s story lingering in the air like a miasma. Petra was at the dining room table with Pythia, chatting with her quietly. Byleth had passed the last of the dirty cups to Ferdinand when she realized that Hubert was gone.

She went out of the kitchen and through the living room, where Linhardt and Caspar were placing blankets on the floor for each of them. “In there,” Caspar said before she could open her mouth. He pointed to a closed door behind him, candlelight flickering from beneath it. “He’s not happy.”

“I don’t know why he’s upset,” Linhardt said as he fluffed a pillow. “If what his mother said was true, the Agarthans were an advanced civilization long before our ancestors even existed. I would just love to take a look at his blood.”

“Bad idea.” Caspar said. “Really bad idea.”

Byleth knocked on the door. “Hue, it’s me.” She heard no response. She knocked again, then entered. Hubert was standing by a window, looking out through the murky glass which glowed green from the streetlamps outside.

“I know you’re feeling so much,” she said after shutting the door behind her. “Hubert, I’m here for you. Talk to me.”

Hubert spoke quietly, still turned away from her. “That isn’t necessary, Professor.”

“Hubert...” Something in the way he said her former title made her chest clench. Byleth went to him, reaching out to stroke the mage’s arm. He recoiled.

“How can you touch me?” Hubert’s eyes were wide as he looked down at her. His arms were wrapped tight around himself.

“What?”

He shook his head, voice low. “I am one of them. Those who killed your father without mercy. Those who slaughtered the children of House Hresvelg—who scarred Her Majesty with their cruel experiments.”

She reached up and held his face in her hands. He looked exhausted, “Hubert,” Byleth said firmly. “Thales and his followers did those things, not you.” He lingered a moment in her touch, but pulled away.

“That is true.” His eyes narrowed. “But this place holds more knowledge about dark magic than I could ever have imagined. One day, even I may not be able to resist my curiosity. Perhaps I will have an urge to experiment on Her Majesty.” An empty smirk twisted on his lips. “Or on you.”

If he had intended to frighten her, he had failed. He had never frightened her, not even in the times when he had threatened her life at the Officers Academy. She had always seen what those threats really were: a projection of his own fears. “You would never do that. I’m not afraid of you. I know you.”

He continued. “Or I might be like my father,” he growled. “So weakened by my heart that I will betray the Empire again and again to satisfy my desires.”

“Hubert. Listen to me.” She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. He did not push her away, but he did not return the embrace either. “You are so loyal, so brave, so much kinder than you know,” she said, rubbing his back underneath his cloak. “You’re a good person. I know that with all of my heart. Edelgard knows that. We all do.”

Byleth heard his heart pounding against her ear. She felt his arms move behind her. She heard a small clink of metal.

“ _No_.” She turned. The ring sat—abandoned—on the table. The candlelight’s reflection on the silver made her eyes sting. “Hubert, no.”

Hubert stepped back, pulling his glove back onto his hand. “For Lady Edelgard’s safety, I must remove all distractions from my focus.”

“ _Hubert_.”

“I will not allow the errors of House Vestra to corrupt Adrestia further. The fate of the Empire is too important.” His voice was calm and even, as if he were reciting a report.

She closed her eyes to summon Sothis to turn back the time. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. There had to be something she could say the next time...Some way to convince him...But then she remembered: there was no turning back time anymore.

Byleth tried to think of anything, but her dizziness made it impossible. “I know you don’t want this, Hubert. You don’t have to push me away.”

Hubert lowered his head, hiding his eyes. He brought his hand to his chest and bowed. “I apologize for wasting your time, Professor. I understand if that is unforgiveable.”

She fought the urge to shake him—to bring him back. To bring _her_ Hubert back. When she first met him, he had been like a fortress of stone, unbreakable and unyielding. As he had grown to know her—to trust her—he had let down his walls, inch by inch. When he had finally let her in, the inside of his heart had been breathtaking in all its darkness and beauty. Now, it was as if Hubert had crawled back into himself and closed the gates.

She was numb as she left the room, the ring cold in her fingers. In her daze, she saw that the rest of the Strike Force had settled on their blankets in the living room. Inevitably, Linhardt was already asleep, curled up near Caspar by the hearth.

“Professor?” Ferdinand rose as she entered the room. He hurried to her when he saw her face. “Are you alright? You do not look well.” His eyes drifted down to her hand. “Is that— _Hubert_.” He raced behind her and entered the room.

It was if she were sleeping with her eyes open as she felt Dorothea take her hand and sit her down. Byleth heard the songstress murmur to her in soft tones as she wiped tears from her face that she hadn’t even realized were there. She felt Bernadetta wrap a blanket tight around her shoulders. Petra laid Byleth’s head in her lap and stroked her hair, braiding and unbraiding it. She heard Ferdinand’s muffled shouting through the wall. When he marched out of the room, he joined them with a huff, flexing his hand. Bits of their words wove in through the pain in her heart. “...stubborn...does not deserve you...he’s making a mistake...we love you.”

Sometime in the night, she saw Hubert pass into the room where they slept. He took his blanket far from where her former students had surrounded her and laid down on the hard tile near the front door, where the cold air of the underground city leaked into the house. He shivered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh...well it looks like we've reached the angst part of our story. Fighting TWSITD was always going to be challenge, but perhaps not in the way the Black Eagles anticipated. As always, thank you for reading this far, and for your feedback. I hope you stay tuned! Next chapter, we'll be in Hubert's head.
> 
> (Also for my fellow foodies: It was really fascinating to read all the various ways that blood-based soups are made in cultures all over the world. I based Pythia's version on Polish Czernina. If you've ever eaten or cooked a blood-based soup, I'd love to know about the version you've had! Throughout history, an insidious way that people spread hatred towards other races and cultures is by tying negative associations to their food. One can see how Agarthans--with their use of blood in their food and spells--could be wrongly presented in Fódlan storytelling through the centuries as "evil creatures" who use "dark" magic because of these practices. Anyway, I really wish Intelligent Systems would publish a book with all of Fódlan's history and lore. There's so much to consider and so many potential theories to make.)


	5. Chapter 5

Scarlet and gold passed in the corners of his vision as Hubert walked through the halls of Her Majesty’s chambers. As his father had instructed him to do every morning, he inspected each section of the palace himself to ensure that everything—and more critically, _everyone_ —was in order. He turned the corner and advanced down the next hall, alongside a wall of portraits. The paintings provided a history of House Hresvelg, each presenting the emperor of that time with their heirs. At the end of the hall, Hubert stopped. The final portrait—of Ionius IX and his children—was crooked. That would not do. He brought his glove under his eyes to make sure that it was clean, then carefully held it out to rearrange the frame.

The moment his fingers touched the portrait, he heard a rustling from behind it. He made a noise of irritation as he lifted the frame and found a sizeable hole in the wall. Hubert’s brow furrowed as he looked into its depths. How some vermin had chewed its way this far without his notice was beyond him.

He pulled his head back as a pair of beady eyes stared at him from the hole. _Rats_. The creature scurried out of the hole and onto the floor. Before Hubert could stomp it with his boot, another crawled out of the hole, then another, then another. The mage conjured Death upon the rats being vomited from the wall. The beasts skittered by unaffected, following their brethren down the hall in one direction. He cursed, dread gripping his insides. The passage led to only one place: Lady Edelgard’s bedroom.

“Your Majesty,” Hubert urged as he warped into her room, “We must go. Now.”

When Edelgard turned and saw him, her eyes widened. She screamed.

“Your Majesty?!” Hubert shouted, glancing around him wildly. The rats had not reached the room yet, and there was no other threat present. He jolted back as the heel of the emperor’s shoe towered over him. Her enormous boot cracked down near him, shaking his suddenly tiny body.

“Lady Edelgard,” he screamed up at her as she brought down her boot again. Hubert missed it narrowly, the floorboards vibrating underneath him. “Edelgard! It’s me!”

His emperor yelped as he came closer. Her hands were shaking as she took Amyr from her back and held it over her head. Just as she was about to drop her axe, Hubert heard scratching behind him. The rats—now his size—flooded past him. He tried to use magic, to block them, to bite them—but it was no use.

“ _No_ ,” he gasped as the rats crawled up Her Majesty’s legs. “No!”

Hubert awoke, freezing cold but covered in sweat. He reached over to pull Byleth closer to him then paused. Everything that had occurred the day before came back to him at once with a wave of nausea. He sat up, concentrating on the stiffness of his limbs rather than the turmoil of emotions inside his heart.

He glanced over to the other side of the room. The others were still asleep, the former Black Eagles snuggled around their professor. Hubert wanted to join them—or even better—push them away and have Byleth’s warmth all to himself. He squeezed his eyes shut and rubbed his face with his hands. No, this was for the best. She needed someone who would add to her light, not smother it out like he would with his darkness.

Hubert cringed a bit as his fingers touched his cheek. He felt the bruise growing there where Ferdinand had slapped him the night before. Von Aegir had meant well—bursting into the room to scold him with as much grand self-righteousness as orange in his hair—but, as was typical, he did not understand. Ferdinand believed that love was like it was in tales of romance—that once two lovers found each other, they could fight demons, dragons, and despair with the power of love, as long as they were together.

The mage smirked at the thought. There were countless things more powerful than love. And to protect her from those things, love might mean being apart.

Hubert rose, willing himself not to look over to Byleth’s softly snoring form once again. Instead, he went into the kitchen and poured himself a cup of water. He drank it all in one go, wincing at its sulfurous flavor.

“Good morning,” Pythia said as she came into the kitchen. Her dark hair was a bit wild, so much like his own became after sleep.

Looking at his... _mother_ was difficult. It made his mind foggy, as if he were in the midst of a vision. His only memories of his mother had come from a dream he’d had from time to time throughout his life—of her looking down at him, her face surrounded by darkness. He focused on the solid feel of the glass in his hand.

Pythia reached past him and opened one of the cabinets. “I have tea if you want it,” she said, bringing out a bag of the dried leaves. She filled a kettle and placed it on a metal disk on the counter. The circle glowed yellow with magic and the kettle rattled as the water boiled.

“It is likely too much to ask that you might have coffee...” Hubert said, leaning against the counter. He had no idea of what to do with his arms, so he crossed them.

“We rarely have imports of that sort, I’m afraid,” Pythia said, shaking her head. “However, I do have this.” His mother took a small tin from the cabinet and opened it. Inside was a fine brown powder. She put a heaping spoonful into a mug and stirred in some of the boiling water. “Mushroom drink,” she said when she saw his eyebrow raise. “It is quite similar in flavor.”

Hubert accepted the mug and took a sip. It wasn’t coffee, but it was hot and bitter at least. It would have to do.

Pythia made herself a cup of tea and watched him. “I knew this reunion would not be a happy one,” she finally said.

Hubert grimaced. “That is an understatement.”

“I have been absent for much of your life. After I returned to Shambhala I made a vow to myself to not interfere again in affairs above or below ground.” She took a long sip of her tea. “I do not regret my decision. It has allowed me a second chance at life—a life to live on my own terms.”

His jaw clenched. “Then your devotion to your cause must not have been very strong to begin with.”

Pythia sighed. “My devotion only ever blinded me to the truth. I hope that you will not be as deceived by it as I was.” She put her mug in the sink and headed out of the kitchen. She stopped before she reached the door. “Virgil.”

Hubert shook his head. “What?”

“Virgil is your Agarthan name,” she said, turning back to him. “I do not expect for you to use it, but you should know the name your mother gave you.”

As she left, Hubert poured the rest of the mushroom drink down the sink, its bitterness heavy on his tongue.

The rest of the Black Eagle Strike Force rose before long. The team was unusually quiet as they went through their inventory for the days of battle ahead. They answered any of his questions in brief bursts of information, void of any of their typical chattering. At least it was far more efficient than usual. Any amusement at this was wiped from his face when he accidentally caught Byleth’s eyes from across the room. His cheek throbbed as she glanced away.

Around the time that they had finished their preparations, Pythia came in through the front door carrying a large sack.

“Even with the directions I’ve given you,” she said, emptying its contents on the table, “you will not get far without these.” It was a pile of dark clothing: robes, hats, veils, and more. “If they see how the sun has touched your skin, they will be suspicious.”

They changed quickly. Hubert selected a long robe and used a pair of his black gloves to match it. He placed a long-beaked mask on his face, then pulled the hood over his head. As he returned to the front of the house, he caught sight of his reflection. With such a mask, with its emotionless eyes of murky glass, he could detect nothing of himself through it. It was a relief.

He found it was much easier to look at Byleth as the Strike Force gathered back together. She had on a wide-brimmed hat pulled down low, obscuring her face.

Pythia placed a small bag in Byleth’s palm. “Agarthan coin for your journey.”

Byleth put her hand on top of Pythia’s. Her disguise could not mask her soft smile. “Won’t you come with us? Lend us your strength.”

His mother shook her head, and Hubert let out a breath he did not know he’d been holding. “This is your war to win, not mine.” She gave their grasp a shake. “Do what you must, Fell Star.”

He felt his mother’s eyes on him as they went out into the green glow of Shambhala’s streets. The Agarthans did not give them a second glance as they passed by. Hubert caught the whiff of fresh bread as they walked by a bakery, its scent no different from any in Fódlan. They were stopped a moment on their path as a row of small Agarthans crossed the street, following along with their teacher. One of the children was forming bubbles of magic with his hands and flicking them at his giggling classmates.

His eye wandered to a table set in front of the shop next to them, covered in books. _100 Simple Curses, Treatise on the Transmutation of Blood, Agartha: A History_...He dug his thumb into the flesh of his palm to keep himself from touching any of the titles.

They followed the map that Pythia had given them to the end of the road and up a moss-coated hill to a wide tunnel. Unlike the one that had taken them to Shambhala, this tunnel seemed well-visited, with its paved road and a steady stream of Agarthans walking through it. As they went deeper on their directed path, their numbers became fewer and fewer.

Petra shuddered. “It is becoming cold.” Her breath showed in the eerie light of the tunnel.

Each step seemed to freeze the air further. Hubert was grateful that his leather mask and heavy robes provided some warmth.

After what seemed like a long while, they came to a set of stairs. Hubert looked down and his stomach flipped. The steps were in a spiral shape, winding their way down deeper than he could see. All that lied at the bottom—as far as he could tell—was inky blackness. He took a step forward and grimaced. The stairs were built from some sort of glass—he could see right through the material under his feet.

He gripped the thin metal railing and gulped, then began to descend. His head swam.

“ _Damned heights_ ,” Hubert thought, enraged at the audacity of these stairs to have been built in such a horrific fashion. He looked down into the darkness, trying and failing to see a platform down below. He could attempt to warp his way down, but there was no guarantee of where he might land. It seemed that he would have to do this the hard way. The mage took another few slow steps down and felt his knees shaking. “ _Stop this, you fool. You’re being ridiculous_.”

He felt a wave of calm wash over him as he felt soft strong fingers take ahold of his hand.

“I’m here, Hubert,” Byleth said beside him, her grip firm. “I won’t let you fall.”

Hubert believed her. Her touch felt so good that he knew he could walk on this staircase for an eternity with her without feeling that same rigid fear.

“I don’t need your pity, Professor.” He forced each word out of his throat, their sounds vile to his ears.

Byleth sighed, then released his hand. “Fine.” She continued down with ease with the rest of the Strike Force.

Hubert bit back his fear and sent his boots down upon each step with intention, focusing on the path ahead. Even with all his concentration, each step felt like torture in slow motion. After what seemed like a lifetime of spiraling in descent, he reached the ground. He swallowed hard to fight off the lingering nausea.

“Um. A-are you okay, Hubert?” he heard Bernadetta squeak as he joined them. She jolted back when he pointed the beak of his mask in her direction.

At the bottom of the staircase was another door, the eye of the Slithers’ emblem staring at them with its metal gaze.

“Greetings,” a pair of guards called to them as they approached the door. “What business have you in the Eye of Agartha?”

Hubert stepped forward, voice even. “We have an appointment with the Agastya.”

“With Thales himself? Impressive.” The female guard brought out a rectangular object from her belt and gestured towards him. “Your sample, please.”

The routine was just as his mother had described. Hubert unsheathed his dagger and placed it near his wrist. He pretended to flinch, instead breaking a small vial attached to his sleeve. Red oozed from the vial onto the blade.

The guard scanned the sample of Pythia’s blood on the dagger and nodded. “And you can vouch for the purity of your party?”

“Of course,” he said, returning the blade to his belt. “I have no interest in associating with beasts.”

“Good.” The Slithers stepped away from the door. “You may pass.”

As he went closer by the female guard, Hubert’s eyes darted to her ears and he felt a buzz of recognition. He had seen her earrings before—he was certain of it. Gold and black, with a round blue bead.

“ _Mercedes..._ ” he heard Dorothea inhale sharply.

_Damn._

“Let us carry on,” Hubert said brusquely, trying to urge the Strike Force forward. If they were caught here, all would be lost. “Thales awaits us.”

“Oh, are you admiring these?” the Slither asked, bringing her ear closer to the songstress. “Thales let me keep them after I captured their previous owner. Such a sweet creature—she barely even struggled.”

On instinct, Hubert grabbed Caspar by the back of his armor. He realized that he had misjudged who would be quick to rash violence when he saw Ferdinand’s fist fly over Dorothea’s shoulder to meet with the guard’s face.

The Slither growled wetly, blood dripping from her broken nose. Before the Strike Force could unsheathe their weapons, the two guards nodded to each other and warped. He heard the door into the Eye lock with a click.

Hubert loomed over the paladin. Von Aegir was lucky that he could not see his face, hidden by his mask. “Did that act of impulse have a purpose or do you enjoy being stupid for your own amusement?”

“I did what was right for someone I cared about,” Ferdinand shoved a finger in his chest. “I know that _you_ do not understand such a thing.”

“Thanks to your lesson, Professor von Aegir, we have likely lost our advantage,” the mage hissed, swiping away his hand. Stealth would be far more challenging now that they had attacked a guard even before they’d set foot in the base. “I did not realize Mercedes’ last wish was for you to put Fódlan’s fate at risk with your flailing fists...”

“Enough!” Byleth said firmly, pushing them apart. Her periwinkle eyes bored sternly into his alone. “Thales wins if we turn on each other. You are better than this.”

Before he could respond, there was a flash of purple behind them. The guards had returned, accompanied by three more friends. The Slithers put something in their mouths and united their hands.

“What are they—“

In an instant, dark red tendrils consumed the Slithers, twisting around their bodies until the individuals were unrecognizable. A dozen beastly limbs burst from them in a rippling of flesh and muscle. Their heads merged into one giant horned head, a long tongue flicking out of its gaping maw. Cold shot down Hubert’s spine as he looked at the eyes of the demonic beast. Unlike the others that they had encountered in the past, intelligence remained in its yellow gaze.

“For the light of Agartha!” The amalgamation roared in five voices.

“Amazing,” he heard Linhardt breathe as the rest of the Strike Force charged towards the demonic beast.

Petra made it to the beast first, swinging her sword down to slice away at one of the creature’s squirming limbs. Bernadetta sent a line of arrows along the beast’s face, aiming for its eyes but missing. It let out a long low growl, whipping its tail around and nearly tripping Caspar as he aimed his gauntlets at its side.

“You are nothing but filthy pests...” it hissed, slithering forward on its many legs. It winced as Dorothea sent a spark of electricity into another of its legs. “Enough of your scratches and stings. It’s time to die.”

It opened its wide mouth and let out a spurt of greenish sludge, the ooze bubbling with poison. Hubert concentrated his magic on the substance, absorbing it into himself before the droplets could hit the Strike Force.

The beast turned its head to him. “You dare betray our kind,” its voice vibrated the air around him. “Disgusting.” Its mouth gaped to let out another spray of sludge, but nothing happened. Hubert’s head pounded as he focused on suppressing the poison in the beast’s throat.

The creature screeched as Byleth plunged her dagger into the soft meat of its chest. It writhed, but the former mercenary kept her grip on it as she cut a line down to its belly. Hubert’s gaze drifted away from Byleth’s toned arms when he spotted an object fall out from where it had been embedded in the scales of the beast. The mage ducked under the beast’s legs and returned with the metal rectangular box in his grasp. He smirked as his suspicion proved to be correct: it was the blood scanner.

As he backed away from the demonic beast, he slid the scanner against a pool of the creature’s blood on the floor. He heard a click. Hubert glanced back at the Strike Force as he neared the unlocked door. He felt his heart pound with admiration as he watched Byleth leading them. The beast was weakening, swiping its legs out in vain as the Black Eagles brought it down. He fully trusted that she would lead them to victory.

Hubert stepped through the doorway and began a brisk stride down the cold metal hall. He anticipated that he had a quarter of an hour at most before the demonic beast fell. It was not much time, but it would have to do. On his own, he was certain he could sneak into the heart of Thales’ base without further detection.

“ _I will finish him no matter the cost_ ,” he thought, his limbs aching. _“I swear that he will never harm any of them again. I will protect them all._ ”

Hubert made it down the hall and then climbed up a ramp, voices growing closer with every step. He looked around him, breathing in the stagnant air of the level. A pack of Slithers passed in front of him, chatting and laughing while they compared their jagged daggers. A bitter, earthy scent wafted from a cart across the street—a Slither sipped a steaming beverage next to it with his long-beaked mask upturned. A mix of growls erupted from down the road. Hubert could see a group of Slithers circled around a pair of small demonic beasts, the creatures fighting as the onlookers cheered them on and prodded them with magic-tipped staffs.

Hubert was relieved that his disguise could mask his revulsion as he scowled at them all, acid burning in his gut. He focused his vision on a platform which overlooked the base from its center. A temple was there, forged from dark metal and lined with blue light. Rather than heading towards the long set of stairs at the front entrance, Hubert approached it from the side. A guard was blocking the much smaller door, his beaked mask swiveling around as he kept watch.

Hubert waved at the guard, then pointed to his head. “Your mask.”

The Slither cocked his head. “Hm? What do you want?”

“Your mask,” Hubert repeated, coming closer. “The seam is ripped. I would hate to see what the Agastya would do if he saw your uniform in such a state.”

The guard stiffened at the mention of Thales. “Is it?” He felt his mask carefully, then threw up his hands. “I don’t see what you mean.”

Hubert outstretched his hand. “Allow me.”

“Well...alright, then.” The Slither pulled off the leather mask and handed it to Hubert. “How embarrassing. It seems you have saved my neck. Thank you, my fr—“ The guard choked as Hubert pressed his hand against his exposed mouth, poisoning his insides with Miasma. He caught the guard as he collapsed and gently rested his body against the wall as to make as little noise as possible.

After looking around him to make sure that no one had seen the exchange, Hubert slipped inside. He was met with the heavy scent of dried flowers. His lip curled. Lord Arundel had always stunk of the blooms—and had even more so in recent years—as if to hide his true identity in the all-consuming stink of his cologne.

Despite the stark appearance of the outside of the temple, it was lavishly decorated within. Dark tapestries were hung on every wall, showing scenes of what had to be Agartha in its golden years. Battles between dark-clad warriors and green-haired men on all fours. Depictions of feasts in which a god-like being poured red liquid into the cups of the celebrating Agarthans as all other creatures were crushed below their feet.

Hubert followed the scent of rotting flowers up a carpeted staircase. Another dark bishop was descending the stairs. He gave him a nod as he passed.

“Where did you get those?”

Hubert froze as the bishop called back up to him. He turned calmly. “Sorry?”

The bishop eyed his hands. “Your gloves. Those are not ours.”

He bobbed his head in a way he hoped would seem friendly behind the mask. “You have a good eye. They are part of my personal collection.”

“These will not do,” the other man said, shaking his head. “They are not to regulation. You must remove them.”

Hubert swallowed. He slowly took off his black gloves, finger by finger. He kept his muscles at the ready to strike. This seemed suspiciously similar to the trick he had pulled on the temple guard.

His brow furrowed as the bishop removed his own gloves and handed them to him. “Here, take mine.”

“Sir?”

“Take them. I insist.” The man pushed the gloves towards the flabbergasted Hubert. “They will protect you far better than those worthless pieces of cloth.”

Hubert accepted the gloves. They were thicker than his, a line of runes sewn into the leather. He tried to pierce through the man’s mask with his gaze to interpret his intentions. He flinched as the dark bishop clasped his hands around his shoulders.

“I care for you all like my own children,” the man said with a shocking amount of tenderness. “You must not poison yourselves, even for our cause. Our magic grows rarer by the generation. You must live.”

The mage nodded his head, struggling to think of what to say in return when another voice shot down from above.

“Odesse!” a man in a pointed feathered hat sneered at the top of the stairs, “Dilly dallying again as usual? Why aren’t you in the lab? Those were your orders.”

“Myson...” the dark bishop grumbled under his breath.

The warlock crossed his arms. “Are you not aware that we have intruders? If those filthy animals discover our work before it is finished, all our plans will be ruined.” He snapped at Hubert. “And you. Get back to your duties. If Thales sees you idling he will have your head.” He strutted away out of view.

“I suppose we ought to follow Myson’s orders,” Odesse sighed. He patted Hubert on the arm as he continued down the stairs. “Until later, young one.”

After Odesse had disappeared, Hubert continued up the steps, still a bit puzzled by the interaction. He pulled on the gloves as he climbed. Their material was soft with wear. They were a bit snug for his long fingers, but they fit well enough.

On the next floor, he stared down the halls. It was quiet, without Myson or any other Slither in sight. Hubert softened his steps as he wandered down the hall, just as he had countless times before when a target to eliminate was near.

And much sooner than expected, there he was. In a room at the end of the hall, Hubert could spot Thales’ white hair in a chair by a fireplace. The mage crept closer, a smirk spreading on his lips.

“ _Asleep, Thales?_ ” Hubert thought, his fingers aching in anticipation as he neared the chair. The leader of Those Who Slither in the Dark slept peacefully, his head back in his dreaming. “ _How unfortunate that you’ll wake to a hell of my creation_.”

As Hubert loomed over Thales, he was struck by how similar this moment was to when he had assassinated his father. The marquis—like Thales—had been lost in slumber, his neck left vulnerable to the lethal cut of Hubert’s dagger. There were more merciful ways to kill a man in his sleep, but as with his father, Hubert needed Thales to suffer.

No more hesitation. He brought his dagger to Thales’ throat and made the cut with one sharp movement.

“You disappoint me, Hubert.”

Hubert saw white around his vision as he heard that familiar voice of silk behind him. He turned, a purple glow already in his palms. “ _Thales._ ” The mage glanced back at the man he had killed. The glamour faded, revealing the man in the feathered hat. _Myson_.

Thales let out a long cruel laugh. “Oh Hubert, you never cease to amuse me.” His blank white eyes were ice. “With a creature as dense as you as Edelgard’s servant, it is no wonder that my sweet niece has become so vulnerable to Agartha’s control.”

“Then you are a greater fool than I thought,” Hubert spat, eyes narrowed. “Her Majesty will never submit to you. Not while I live.”

“Is that so?” Thales snapped his fingers and a gang of Slithers warped in, weapons drawn. “I am pleased our conflict has such a simple solution. Kill him.”

Before Hubert could warp out of the room and pursue Thales, one of the Slithers hit him with a blast of Silence. As hard as he tried to envision his spell circles, his mind remained completely blurred. He growled in frustration and focused on the attackers surrounding him.

A sword came swiping up on his right—he twisted around it and plunged his dagger into the Slither’s chest. He shoved the dying Slither towards an axe-wielder, who received a blade through the eye as the body’s weight stunned her.

As Hubert pulled out the blade, a fist from the side sent him reeling. His mask was thrown off from the blow, his head throbbing from where it had been hit. He turned and stuck another of his daggers into the assailant, a Slither as tall as he but nearly twice as wide with muscle. The grappler barely flinched at the knife in his massive chest.

Hubert ducked as the Slither sent his arm flying for another punch. The mage groaned as the man sent a surprise left jab into his ribs with a sickening crunch. He tried to back away but the grappler grabbed him by the neck of his robes and lifted him off the ground. Hubert kicked and hit at the grappler in vain. He tried again to conjure his magic but his mind was dizzier than ever.

As the Slither choked him, reality bitter and quick as poison flooded his veins. He was going to die. He had not defeated Thales—and even worse, the leader would now be eagerly awaiting the Strike Force’s arrival. He had failed to protect them. His friends...Her Majesty...Byleth.

The memory came to him of Edelgard on the day she had returned to the palace. Her once soft brown hair stripped of all its color. Her eyes dull and distant, like those of a corpse. Her hand—when he had taken it—was hard and cold as death. He had spent weeks awake after that obsessing without end, trying to picture what they had done to his Lady to make her this way.

He envisioned those same tortures now, but now instead how they would experiment on Byleth—the one they called Fell Star—the one who had once had the Goddess’ heart in her chest—the one who even still had remnants of the Crest of Flames in her blood. The thought of that same dead look in the eyes of the one he loved made him nearly black out with agony.

Suddenly, he gasped as air came back into his lungs, his feet returning to the floor. The grappler collapsed, life melting from his body as fast as snow touching a flame. Byleth pulled the needle dagger from the Slither’s neck and wiped it on her sleeve.

“Byleth...” His voice was hoarse. He couldn’t push down his thoughts anymore as he looked at her, her powerful body splattered with the blood of those who had tried to kill him. It took all of his will not to kiss her as she came to him.

A soft noise slipped out of him as Byleth brought her fingers to the bruising on his neck, then down his body. “Are you hurt?”

He winced as her hand neared his broken rib. “Nothing fatal.” The shot of pain reminded him of his focus. “We must stop Thales.”

Byleth crouched down and recovered Hubert’s dagger from where it had been embedded in the grappler’s chest. She handed him his weapon, her periwinkle eyes lingering a moment into his as she put the weapon into his hand. “We will.”

They traveled through the temple fast as they were able despite the sharp throbbing in Hubert’s side. If Thales was still within the building, they could finish this quickly.

“Where are the others?” Hubert asked as the tapestries on the walls they passed became fewer, replaced by stark metal.

“They should catch up to us soon,” Byleth said, then sighed. “Why didn’t you wait for us? You didn’t have to face Thales by yourself.”

The hurt in her voice made shame crawl hot up his neck. “I...”

They stopped suddenly as they turned the corner and the hall opened up to a vast chamber. Byleth unsheathed her dagger and Hubert concentrated his magic in his palms. At the back of the room atop a raised platform stood Thales.

He hailed them as they entered the chamber, as calmly as if they had come to join him for tea. “Fell Star,” he called out, his voice a slithering echo through the room. “You’re right on cue.”

“We’ve grown tired of your games,” Hubert hissed. He summoned Death and sent the shadowed mass hurtling towards Thales. The Agastya absorbed it with a wave of his hand.

“And Hubert. Too stubborn to die, I see.” Thales lifted his arm and more Slithers warped between them. “It is a pity you have lived to watch your mate suffer.”

Byleth avoided the jab of a fortress knight’s lance, cracking open his armor with a purposeful strike of her blade. Hubert sent a wave of Banshee into the opening, sending the knight to the floor with his limbs jerking about wildly as he died. The mage was pulled back by Byleth to avoid a punch from another grappler. The former mercenary leapt in front of Hubert and gave the grappler a merciless kick to the groin and a slash through his throat as he fell to his knees groaning. He protected her from behind, grabbing hold of a Slither’s lance and plunging it back into its owner.

Hubert couldn’t help but revel in the feeling of fighting beside Byleth. The rhythm of their movements together seemed as natural as breathing. Fighting with her sent pleasure coursing through the whole of his being.

Slowly, the swarm of Slithers around them began to dissipate. Hubert spotted a gap in the mass. Byleth saw where his eyes led and darted through, blade tight in her grip as she shot towards Thales.

The leader of Those Who Slither in the Dark accepted the dagger into his chest without any resistance. Hubert felt his spine freeze. Thales let out a long, gurgling laugh as he died.

“ _Another trap?_ ” Hubert thought as panic speared through him. “ _No_.” He shoved his way through the crowd of Slithers to see the ground around Thales’ body glow with a circle of magic.

Hubert warped in to grab Byleth into his arms just as a chunk of the ceiling fell down with a booming crash. He covered her tightly under his body as another javelin of light blasted through, metal bits of the roof crushing the Slithers too stunned to warp away in time.

There was a lull in the chaos. Hubert rolled off of Byleth and helped her up. He closed his eyes, reaching out with his magic to feel the sky above. Just as in Arianrhod, he could detect the warp circles that spewed out the javelins of light. He could feel them buzzing with energy, charging for another attack. Clarity filled his head with a beam of adrenaline.

He felt Byleth touch his hand and he opened his eyes. Her mouth was curved in a small smile, as if she already knew that he had a plan. She really was so perceptive. He loved that about her and always would.

“What can I do?”

“Find the others,” Hubert said, looking back up to the sky. It vibrated with growing pressure. “If I fail, I trust that you will keep them safe.”

Her smiled faded. “And what about you?”

“Don’t you recall what Thales said?” he smirked, touching her cheek with the tip of his glove. “I am too stubborn to die.”

Byleth’s lips curled up a little at that. “I trust you.” At that, she left his side, her footsteps echoing as she ran through the debris-covered chamber.

Hubert refocused his magic on the sky above. He felt his line of magic tug as it attached to the javelin release points. As he held onto each one, his head throbbed with a growing tension. His eyes watered as the pain in his eyes became excruciating, but he pressed on. He would happily feel twice as much if it meant that he could protect them.

He warped, and all he knew was darkness.

* * *

Byleth heard an enormous bubbling hiss in the distance. There was no rumble in the walls, no cracking of the ceiling above. The sound had come from above ground.

“W-what was that?” Bernadetta squeaked as the Strike Force flinched from the sound.

She turned and waved for them to follow, heading back towards the chamber. When she reentered it, she let out a sharp exhale. Hubert was gone.

The hissing was louder here, leaking in through the opening in the ceiling. Billows of white smoke floated up and blocked the blue sky from view.

“I need to get up there!” she shouted, fear gripping her insides. Where was he? They were safe, but _where was he_?

Byleth felt her stomach turn as Linhardt warped her to the surface. She started running even before she hit the ground, jumping over roots and dodging trees as she went through the forest. She came to the edge of the trees.

Down the hill, the ocean boiled, steam rising high above the green waters. The javelins of light burned underwater, the light of their heat fading in the waves. On the beach, she could see a dark figure lying still on the sand.

“ _Hubert!_ ” Her lungs were raw from running. Byleth sped down the hill and fell down on the sand near him. His chest was moving in shallow breaths, his skin ice cold as she pulled him into her lap.

She pushed the hair away from his eyes and gasped. Threads of dark magic were spreading up his neck and riddling his face with thin scars. His arms were heavy—she tried to lift one and realized his glove was soaked through with purple. She pulled them off, ignoring the way the magic stung her fingers. The dark marks on his hands were deeper than ever.

“Move away, Professor,” she heard Linhardt say bluntly.

Byleth looked up and realized the rest of the Strike Force had joined her on the beach without her noticing it. She glanced back to Linhardt, dazed. Then the pain set in deep in her chest, worse than any wound or even her Crest sickness. A pain like when she had shed her first tears after her father had died in her arms.

“Please help him,” she said, her voice shaking. She curled and pressed her head against Hubert’s chest, feeling his slow heartbeat.

Ferdinand gently grabbed her around the waist and pried her away from Hubert. She could feel dampness fall down on her shoulders as the paladin cried above her.

Linhardt pressed his hands against Hubert’s temples and light blossomed from his palms, white as the clouds of steam that billowed up from the boiling sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are at the penultimate chapter. I am so grateful to those of you who have read this far! And so thankful for the continued feedback in the comments. You all are awesome!
> 
> This week I’ll go on a ramble about Hubert’s Agarthan name! As the main members of TWSITD are named after the Seven Sages of Greece, I wanted to stick with a classical name, so I ended up selecting Virgil. Virgil was a classical Roman poet best known for the Aeneid and other important works in literature history. HOWEVER, I chose Virgil because of how the poet was imagined in the medieval age. A lot of medieval stories presented Virgil as an actual sorcerer. He was said to be a necromancer, able to summon powers of darkness, who used his cunning mind and magic to eventually become the emperor’s greatest friend and counselor. That seemed like a pretty perfect fit to me. I love this stuff, so I hope that some of you find it as fascinating as I do haha. 
> 
> One more chapter left to go. Until then!


	6. Chapter 6

Darkness embraced him for a long time, his vision eclipsed by shadow. At times, some sensation would break through the neverending night. A warm touch to his hand...a voice whispering his name...but when he tried to respond, the darkness heavied his limbs and swallowed his tongue. 

And then—suddenly, before he could begin to comprehend it—there was light.

He opened his eyes. All he could see was a blur in his vision. There was something to his side, a blob of red and white and gold.

“Hubert?” he heard a woman gasp. “Send word. He is waking.”

“Your Majesty,” Hubert slurred as Edelgard focused into view. She was sitting by his bed, candlelight glinting off her crown. He tried to sit upright but she kept him down with a hand to his shoulder.

“There is no need to rise. You must rest.” He tried again to sit up and her tone became firm. “That is an order, Hubert.”

He settled back onto his pillow, chiding the weakness in his limbs. For Her Majesty to see him like this—with his mind dull and his body feeble—was embarrassing beyond measure. However, those thoughts were quickly shoved aside when the memories of Shambhala slithered back into his mind.

His voice was rough from lack of use. “Those Who Slither in the Dark—“

Edelgard stopped his words with a shake of her head. “They have been defeated,” she smiled, her violet eyes soft. “The war is over at last.”

Hubert allowed himself a small smile of his own in her presence. “Good.” He cleared his throat. “However, there is no time for celebration. There is much to do. The remaining Slithers must be seized and questioned. They must not be given any opportunity to plot revenge against the Empire.”

His emperor laughed a little. “I am relieved that your time asleep has not changed you.” Her violet gaze hardened. “But their members were brought to justice at the end of last moon. Our conflict with them is finished.”

It was truly over, then. Hubert felt dizzy. “How long have I been like this?”

“Six weeks.”

“ _Six weeks_?” Combined with his time in Shambhala, he had been absent from his duties for nearly seven. Yet, the halls were calm—the palace did not seem to be in any chaos as far as he could perceive. And Her Majesty had not come to any harm, even without his presence. Perhaps his next words would not be as difficult to say as he had anticipated.

“Then I presume that you have been told of...of what I am.”

Edelgard nodded. “Byleth informed me.”

He could not look her in the eye, afraid of what he might see. “Your Majesty,” Hubert bowed his head as best as he was able on his pillow. “I humbly request to step down as your minister.”

Hubert felt as if there was a ball of lead in the back of his mouth. “I will go wherever you wish to send me. I will never cease serving you with the same dedication.” He swallowed hard. “But here in the palace, I will only serve as a reminder of those who have harmed House Hresvelg.” He gritted his teeth. “To have such a person as your closest servant is inconceivable. I will not allow it.”

He kept his head low as a long silence spread through the room. He nearly broke his bow when Edelgard finally spoke.

“How dare you.”

Hubert’s heart clenched. “Your Majesty—”

“Be quiet, Hubert,” his emperor said, each word razor sharp. “How could you think that I would dismiss you for such a thing?” She let out a sigh from deep in her chest. “Are you aware that I have known you for longer than any of my siblings? You are more my brother than any of them ever had a chance to be.” Edelgard crossed her legs. “I refuse to accept your resignation.”

He sank down deeper into the mattress, fighting his urge to contradict her. “ _Brother? You?_ ” he could hear how his father would have laughed at that. “ _She is your Lady and you her servant. Never dare to fool yourself into believing otherwise_.”

She laughed again, bitterly this time. “Have you any idea of how it hurts to watch you deny yourself any happiness in the name of my protection?” The sadness in her tone made him want to sink back into the darkness he had awoken from. “You are so willing to be of service to the Empire—to protect and defend us no matter what. Why will you not allow others to do the same for you?”

Hubert’s mouth was dry. His emperor’s words spun uncomfortably in his brain. “Please forgive my foolishness...” Then he heard himself asking what he had wished to since he had awoken. “Where is she?”

Edelgard’s brow relaxed. “Byleth is meeting with the Agarthans in the main hall.”

“She is with Agarthans?” He could not help but try to jolt upright again. “In the palace?”

His emperor’s voice remained calm. “We have been in communication with the Agarthans since you returned from Shambhala. There are people down there— Fódlan’s people—in need of the Empire’s aid.”

She gestured to his face. “You owe the Agarthans your life. Our healers could only do so much—it was their knowledge that kept your magic from poisoning you.”

Before he could reply, Byleth rushed into the room. She stared at him for a brief moment, then leapt onto the bed and gripped him into a tight hug against her. He felt his cheeks getting hot as his face was buried into her soft chest.

“I’ll leave you two be,” Edelgard smiled as she saw this, much to Hubert’s horror. She rose, giving them a warm glance as she left.

Byleth pulled away and took a long look at him. Her thumb stroked his cheekbone. “How do you feel?”

He smirked, trying not to lose himself entirely in her periwinkle eyes. “Splendid.” She gave him a light smack on the shoulder to pay for his sarcasm.

The mage pretended to react to the pain of her blow. “Making an attempt on my life while I’m wounded? How devious of you.”

Byleth snorted. But then her smile faded, and she put her arms around him firmly once again. “I was so scared,” she said softly, “that we would finally be even.”

“Even?”

“That you might sleep for five years too. Or for forever.” She laughed through her sniffles. “It sounds stupid to say it out loud.”

“Not at all,” Hubert shook his head, tucking her head under his. “But I would never permit that to happen. Not even if the gods themselves damned me to an eternal slumber.”

“That’s true. Your duties to Edelgard are too important.”

“That would be only part of it,” He lifted her chin to catch her eyes.

His lips ached to meet with hers. Hubert’s face was so close to Byleth’s that the tips of their noses nearly touched. She tilted her head to kiss his cheek, then moved away.

As she did so, Hubert caught a glance of himself in the mirror across from the bed and cringed. He looked so hideous that even he was almost frightened by the sight. Six weeks of sleep had covered his chin in a dark beard. That paired with his untidy curls made him look like a wild man. The mage brought his fingers to his face as he noticed fine dark scars covering his features like the ones on his hands. If he had been known for being grotesque before, there was no denying the truth of it now.

He pushed away his blankets and forced his way out of the bed. Byleth jumped up to keep him steady.

“Hubert—“

He avoided her eyes. For her to see him like this was mortifying. She was more beautiful than ever. He barely seemed human.

“I must bathe,” he said, trying to will away the weakness in his body. “And shave. I look ridiculous.”

“You’ve been lying here for weeks. You’ll need to regain your strength,” she said firmly, putting her arm around his back. “I’ll help you.”

“There is no need.” Hubert took a step on his own and the room spun.

Byleth stood in front of him, hands on her hips. “Would you prefer to be walked or carried?”

“Fine.” He leaned against her as they went to the washroom. Hubert doubted Byleth could carry him—but the thought of her trying sent a bit of a thrill through him. He was pathetic.

Hubert sat at the edge of the tub while Byleth prepared the bath, swirling the contents of a silver bottle into the hot water. Soon, steam filled the room, smelling of oranges and cinnamon. When the tub was full, he went to take off his clothes but hesitated. As pleasant as the odor was, it did nothing to dull his shame.

Byleth saw his expression and stood. “Should I ask Otto to bathe you instead?”

“No!” Hubert said a bit too brusquely. “I would much rather it be you.” He lowered his head, cheeks hot. “But I dislike that you are having to degrade yourself in such a way.”

“Then I’ll join you.” She took off her top partway and raised an eyebrow. “Would that make you feel better?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Hubert heard himself sputter. He quickly took off his clothes and entered the bath before she could notice the beginnings of his arousal—half due to the hint of her bare breasts and half because of how wickedly clever her manipulation had just been.

Byleth came into the water after him and immediately got to work. She put a dollop of soap on her wet palms and bubbled them up. When she began to shampoo him, the sensation of her gentle fingers running through his hair made something stir inside him. It started small, like a pinch—then a growing pressure—and then it burst. All the feelings that he had been trying his hardest to repress flooded through him in an overwhelming mangled mass.

House Vestra had not been an affectionate family. His father had given him a stiff hug or a pat on the head from time to time, but it was only ever as a reward for a task well done.

He had acted with such incompetence in Shambhala. He had endangered the Strike Force by sneaking off to defeat Thales alone. And worse—and in an act so much more repugnant—he had broken Byleth’s heart. In all ways, he had failed.

And yet, in spite of all that he was and all he had done, she wanted to touch him.

“Hue?” Byleth paused her shampooing and pulled away her hands from his hair as if she had hurt him. “Do you want me to stop? You’re shaking.”

“I’ve been a fool,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “You loved me and I pushed you away. For that, I must apologize to you from the very depths of my heart.”

He took a shaky breath and realized that tears were leaking out of him. Hubert had not cried in front of someone else since he had been a child. Crying often made him irritated enough with himself to want to scream...yet with Byleth, it somehow felt like relief.

“When I broke off our engagement, I believed I was doing what had to be done to protect you.” He shook his head. “I was just a coward. The thought that you would be afraid of me—of what I am—was too terrifying to bear.”

Hubert’s eyes stung from soap and tears. “But far more unbearable would be a future without you.” He turned in the bath to gaze at her unflinchingly. “I love you, Byleth. Please forgive me.”

Byleth was quiet a moment. The only sound in the washroom was the drip, drip of water into the tub.

“I want to forgive you, Hubert,” she finally said, “but you have to let me.” Byleth held his face in her hands, determination in her eyes strong as steel. “I love you. I want to fight with you through everything. Let me stand beside you.”

She took a washcloth and wiped shampoo away from his eyes. “And when you’re hurt, let me take care of you. I know that you will do the same for me.”

Hubert let out an exhale deep in his chest. He pressed his forehead against hers. “I promise that I will.” He felt her warm breath against his lips. “May I kiss you?”

He felt her smile. “Always.” As his mouth met hers, all the tension in him melted away.

And so he relaxed—as best as Hubert could. Byleth washed his hair and gave him a scrub all over (some places more achingly in need of her touch than others). He marveled at her dexterity in handling his razor as she shaved his face clean without a single cut to his flesh.

After Hubert dried off, Byleth brought him a pile of his clothes. He had expected that she would give him another clean set of bedclothes, but instead, she laid out a crisp white shirt and trousers. Once he had dressed, he looked into the mirror and smiled with satisfaction. Dark scars still ran through the pale skin of his face, but properly groomed and dressed, he felt much better. He was certainly still grotesque, but that was acceptable. He had a reputation to maintain, after all.

“I feel more like myself now,” the mage said, giving Byleth a short bow. “Thank you.”

Byleth grinned. “I hoped that you would.” She held out her arm. “Time to get back to your rest.”

Hubert took her arm and smirked. “And if I fail to behave, will you punish me?”

She gave him a playfully threatening glare. “I’ll only punish you if you _do_ behave.”

“ _Very well_.” He made his way with her back to the bed and settled in without complaint.

* * *

Each day that followed was another chance for Hubert to practice letting go. For an hour before dawn, he and Byleth rose and built their strength together. In one side of the room, his love stretched out her limbs to dispel her Crest pains—in the other, he performed small exercises to steadily restore the health of his body, so weakened by an excess of magic and slumber.

After a quick breakfast—or simply a cup of coffee for him—Byleth left for the central part of the palace. During the time that Hubert was unconscious, she had taken on his duties in the Imperial Household, and Her Majesty insisted that their former professor performed them with nearly his level of perfection. He never had any doubt.

Hubert told her so, after she spent the first week reading each report to him and asking for his judgment on all of the Household’s affairs. He would have required such detail from anyone else, but Byleth—as always—was an exception.

“There is no need,” he said to her before she could read him another merchant report, “I trust you entirely.”

Most of his days were spent reading. Byleth had shown him a new set of books on their shelf, a selection of tomes that had been delivered by the Agarthans when they had first come to meet with the Empire at the palace. _For my Virgil_ , read the inscription on the inside of each cover. The collection included texts on Agarthan history, mythology, warfare, and more. The first book he opened was the one he had hesitated to the most. A guide to dark magic—a thick leather-bound tome yellowed with age.

When he finally found the courage to open it, he nearly laughed at himself for his fears. There were no spells that encouraged the kind of cruel corruption of human flesh and blood that had scarred Her Majesty. In fact, few of the spells were violent in nature at all. Many were everyday uses of magic—healing spells, recipes for medicinal potions, and small charms.

One example that he found particularly amusing was for a spell that he recognized, Swarm. Rather than instructing on how to summon insects to consume enemies in a cloud of stings, the original intention for the spell was for keeping bees. The next page included a rotting charm—meant not for putrefying victims but instead for fermenting honey into mead.

Once enough strength had returned to his legs, Hubert would take an afternoon stroll to the street across from the palace to wander through Enbarr’s finest museums and exhibitions. He had never bothered to visit many of these places before—such activities had seemed frivolous. But despite his revulsion towards leisure, he found that he enjoyed himself immensely.

His favorite destination became the Imperial Aviary. Hubert had always liked flying creatures, with the elegance of their design and the grace with which they took to the air. Of all the collections in the aviary, he was especially fond of the ravens. Though their dark feathers and delight in devouring carrion made their appearance seen as a foul omen, they were intelligent and playful birds. He would lean on the walking cane he now required and watch their antics for hours.

One afternoon, he had been feeding the ravens a bit of meat he had brought for them in his pocket when he heard his name.

“Is that Minister Vestra?” he heard a woman ask quietly. “He’s your friend, isn’t he?”

“That is unlikely,” Ferdinand replied in his unmistakable tenor. “Relaxing is not something he is capable of...Oh!” The paladin saw him and his mouth opened. “Hubert! It _is_ you.”

“Ferdinand,” Hubert greeted him in reply, giving the lady friend on his arm a nod.

The mage had not seen much of Ferdinand since he had awoken. They had fought often enough in the past, but after their quarrel in Shambhala, their interactions had been awkward.

“What is it that Edelgard needs in the aviary?” Ferdinand asked, giving him a polite smile. “Does the mailroom require another raven?”

“I am not here on business,” Hubert said, mirroring his smile. “I am simply enjoying myself.”

Ferdinand laughed. After the mage didn’t respond, his eyes widened. “Oh. You are serious.”

Hubert cleared his throat. “I...am glad to see you,” he said slowly, disgusted with his own sentimentality. The squawk of a raven overhead refocused him. He tried to smile again, as genuinely as he could manage. “Won’t you and your lady join Byleth and I for tea later?”

Ferdinand’s brow furrowed. “ _You_ are inviting _me_ to have tea?”

“If that is so inconceivable then I will withdraw my invitation—”

“No!” the paladin exclaimed. A raven awoken by his shouting glared at him disapprovingly. “We would be honored!”

“Good,” Hubert nodded. “We will expect you later in the palace, then.” As he went to turn back to feeding the birds, he let out an irritated whine as Ferdinand pulled him into a hug.

“I am pleased,” von Aegir told him mid-squeeze, “that you did not die.”

“Then we agree on something,” Hubert rolled his eyes. He sighed, then tried his best to return the embrace. It was not so awful, really.

* * *

Hubert and Byleth sat on either side of Her Majesty’s chair as the emperor accepted a pile of documents from him and laid them out before her. The half dozen Agarthans seated across from her leaned in to gain a glimpse at their contents.

An Imperial guard stood by the dark bishop, but Odesse seemed not to have any desire to escape their custody and sat willingly.

“We are grateful for all of the information you have shared with us,” Hubert said to the older Agarthan, “despite your sentence.”

“It was what was right,” Odesse replied. “I continued to support Thales long after his methods went too far.” He bowed his head. “Sharing my knowledge is the least I can do. So many lives have been lost in this conflict—yours and ours.”

Edelgard nodded at this. “Your generosity has not been in vain.” She slid a document forward that Hubert and Byleth had spent the last few weeks composing together, marked with Her Majesty’s wax seal of approval.

“As newly recognized citizens of the Empire, we have established measures to aid Agarthans in their transition to living on the surface of Fódlan,” his emperor began, gesturing to the document. “We will work to educate the people and allay any fears they might hold against Agartha.”

Her Majesty pushed another document forward, her scarlet armor glittering bright. “Hrym will be reestablished as an Agarthan-led territory. The Empire requests that the people of Shambhala elect a leader to Enbarr to represent them in the government of Fódlan.” She smiled to Byleth, who lifted a final sheet of paper.

“Finally, the Empire would like for Agartha to choose a new name for Hrym. It is ultimately your decision, of course,” Byleth said, pointing to the bottom of the page, “but we’ve suggested _Thinis_.”

Odesse looked at the other Agarthans. He slowly put his head in his hands. “Our people have dreamed for a day like this to come for millennia,” he breathed. “Thank you.”

“Do not thank us,” Edelgard said firmly with a shake of her head. Her lips curved into a small smile. “It was what was right.”

Hubert felt Byleth’s eyes on him. He met her gaze and reached out his hand behind Edelgard’s chair. Their fingers touched, wove together, and did not separate.

* * *

Hubert winced as Ferdinand resumed his whistling. In the time that he had been waiting in the Imperial Gardens for the wedding to begin, his best man had somehow whistled through a medley of nearly every Fódlan marriage hymn. Ferdinand whistled a particularly long high note and Hubert mustered all his will to resist throwing the paladin into the lake. As satisfying as it would be, Byleth would likely not appreciate a soggy Ferdinand at the ceremony.

The mage took a deep breath and leaned on his cane as he focused on the purple glow of the lake behind them. As the sun was beginning to set, the orbs of light he had laid on the water glimmered.

The orbs served a practical purpose—to illuminate the scene for their guests—but he also knew that Byleth found them quite beautiful. As much as he had stepped back to allow their friends to arrange the wedding, Hubert could not resist making at least one small touch of his own.

Earlier in the day, he and Lucan had made the orbs of light together. His half-brother seemed quite intelligent for a boy his age, and quickly picked up the task—forming his magic into a ball shape until it hardened, elegant and delicate as blown glass.

When Lucan had proudly shown him his work, Hubert had paused before he replied. Most of the orbs had been made well, but a few were warped just slightly, their flaws small enough that only he would have noticed them. He had thought of his father at that moment—how the marquis would have chided him and forced him to redo the task again until it was perfect.

“Fine work, Lucan,” Hubert had told his half-brother instead. He knew his father’s words would always be at the back of his throat, but he could choose not to give them life. 

Hubert turned back to the audience as the last of the guests took their seats. It was almost time. He traced the feathers engraved into his cane to calm the tangle of nerves and excitement in his chest. The night before, Byleth had surprised him with a walking cane more suitable to his taste than the simple wooden one the healers had given him. It was carved from a dark wood, its handle shaped into the two heads of the Adrestian eagle. His thumb felt one of the eagle’s eyes, white with mother-of-pearl to match the daggers he had given to his love.

His stomach flipped as the melodic notes of a harp began. He straightened as the guests rose and turned to look up the path towards the palace. Hubert clutched his cane to steady himself from the intensity of emotion that surged through him as he saw her.

Byleth was dressed in a deep red gown, its color matching the lining of the cloak he wore as part of the more formal version of his minister’s uniform. Her hair was tied up in a loose braiding—Petra’s work, likely. Her veil—woven of gold lace—flowed from the back of her head to the hem of her gown. But what took the breath from him was her soft smile as their eyes met.

He could not take his gaze away from Byleth as Her Majesty led her to him. He despised every blink of his eyes, for even that briefest moment was one without her in his vision. At last, Byleth was beside him. Hubert passed his cane to Ferdinand so that he could take her hands with his ungloved ones, leaning into her touch instead.

The rest of the ceremony—without any of the Church of Seiros’ meaningless drivel—was simple and short. There was no reason to put on a performance, Hubert and Byleth had agreed. Their love was a private one, one they both hoped would be clear to see without some sort of spectacle. The ceremony soon reached its final steps.

“Do you—Hubert von Vestra, Marquis of Adrestia and Minister of the Imperial Household, ” Her Majesty asked, “take this woman as your wife?”

Hubert couldn’t help but grin at Byleth as he spoke. “I do.” He swore a hundred more vows within himself in that moment, promises he hoped to share with her for the rest of his days.

“And do you—Byleth Eisner, Major General of the Imperial Army, take this man as your husband?”

Byleth squeezed his hands, her periwinkle eyes locked on his. “I do.”

“Then, in my power as sovereign of Adrestia,” Lady Edelgard announced, a hint of dampness in her violet eyes, “I seal your fates together in marriage as husband and wife.”

She opened the box that contained their wedding bands and held it between them. Hubert took Byleth’s ring and slid it onto her finger, the agarthium cool to his touch. His mother had taught him the charm to cast on the ring—a binding spell sealed with a drop of his blood.

Byleth took the band infused with her own blood and put it on his finger in return. Her lips parted as she looked up at him, her fingers raising to trace his cheek.

“A binding by words,” Pythia had told them, “lasts as long as the words are heard, but a binding by blood is eternal. It is a vow to bind your hearts together through all bloodshed, whether they be times of childbirth or of war.”

Before Her Majesty could give the command, Hubert leaned down and kissed Byleth. As he lingered in the euphoria of her lips against his, Hubert knew that—blood binding or not—that was a vow he would never break.

A feast awaited them in the palace, the long table in the dining room stuffed with nearly every one of his and Byleth’s favorite dishes.

It was a more private affair—just their friends and a selection of others. Hubert saw no sight of his mother or Lucan. He had caught a glimpse of them during the wedding, watching from a distance, hidden in the shadow of a garden archway. After the ceremony had finished, however, they seemed to have vanished once again.

Hubert filled his plate with a meat pie—the savory, peppery smell of its filling enticing his senses—a piece of chilli-rubbed fish grilled rare, and a few other delectable morsels.

Byleth ate heartily beside him, her plate piled high. Incredibly, she devoured everything before Hubert was halfway through his meat pie. She looked sadly at the empty bowl in front of her. He had never known her to enjoy sour foods—and yet she had somehow finished the table’s bowl of pickled fish and vegetables almost entirely on her own.

After that was the presentation of the wedding cake, a towering creation enrobed in marzipan and iced with Imperial scarlet and gold. Bernadetta had decorated the cake herself, covering it with her delicate designs. Byleth’s favorite part of the cake was their likenesses at its top.

“It’s you!!” she cooed as she showed him the figure of himself. Bernadetta had given him red eyes, painting his lips into a positively evil grimace. It was highly inaccurate, but Byleth seemed to adore it. He tried his best to recreate the same face as he thanked Bernadetta for her work.

To his satisfaction, the cake itself was not very sweet, a gingerbread baked with cinnamon, cloves, and other spices to combat the days growing steadily colder in the Red Wolf Moon. He caught his wife trying to steal a piece of cake from his plate and gave her hand a light jab with his fork, smirking at her naughtiness.

Byleth retaliated against his poke by picking up her own fork. She brought it under the table and held it against his inner thigh. She smiled at him sweetly.

“Wife,” Hubert gasped, eyebrows raising in faux surprise, “Are you threatening me?”

“Oh yes, dearest husband,” Byleth purred, giving his trousers a prod with the fork.

He picked up the piece of cake with his fingers and brought it towards her. Byleth opened her mouth expectantly. When she took it from him, her lips closed around his fingers as if to taste him too.

Thankfully—as if he could sense Hubert’s corrupted thoughts in that moment—Ferdinand rose, a bell in his hand.

“Friends,” his best man announced, ringing the bell above his head, “It is time for the bedding!”

The room was filled with excited murmurings. Caspar was the first to start the chant. “Bedding! Bedding! Bedding!” he shouted, pounding his fists against the table. The rest of the Strike Force joined him—even Lady Edelgard, who seemed a bit flustered by it all.

Like Her Majesty, Hubert thought that the bedding ceremony was quite silly. It was an old tradition, beloved by Fódlan commoners and nobles alike. And it was hardly necessary—he and Byleth had been consummating their desires for each other for moons, after all. However, the prospect of the custom had filled their friends—and his wife—with such giddy glee that in the end, he had relented.

He gave Byleth a smirk as their friends gathered around them. She returned it with a gaze that made him beg that the Strike Force would deliver them to their bedchamber fast as a warping spell.

Their stare was broken as his wife was hoisted up by the women, Petra lifting her legs while Dorothea and Edelgard supported her torso. Bernadetta followed along, looking horrified.

Hubert sighed and accepted his fate as their remaining friends picked him up.

“You’re _so_ heavy...” Linhardt whined from below him.

“Are you kidding me, Linhardt?” Caspar said, “Hubert’s a lightweight.” He tripped a little on a floorboard, nearly dropping Hubert on his head.

The mage turned his head to hiss in Caspar’s ear. “ _If you drop me_ —”

“Oh lighten up, will ya?” von Bergliez replied. “You’re the one who’s about to get laid.”

“Dorothea,” he heard Petra ask. “Why will Hubert have a chicken in the bed? The customs of Fódlan are always strange.”

“Oh! No. Petra, “ Dorothea lowered her voice. “I was talking about Hubie’s—”

“DOROTHEA,” Edelgard interjected a bit loudly. “Why don’t you sing us something?”

As the Strike Force carried him and his wife through the halls of the palace to their bedchamber, Hubert was overcome with a strange sense of contentment. In spite of their friends’ loud and bawdy singing and their rowdy giggling—in spite of the sheer commonness of the custom that brought an embarrassed blush to his cheeks, the feeling of warmth spread in his chest.

Hubert caught Byleth’s eye and smiled at his wife as they were carried into the darkness of House Vestra’s wing, the halls lit with their laughter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It seems we’ve reached the end of our tale. Thank you for coming along with me on this journey! 
> 
> Playing FE3H really changed my 2020 for the better, and I’m sure that I’m not the only one who feels this way. Writing this fic was very cathartic for processing through all the turmoil of this year. I think that there will be light at the end of all this, but it may mean accepting that life will be different. But there is hope in that too.
> 
> Also: music is a big part of my writing process, so here is a list of the artists that ended up on this fic’s playlist, just because!: Devin Townsend, Riverside/Lunatic Soul, Killing Joke, Ghost, Muse, Opeth, and The Sisters of Mercy.
> 
> Anyway, thanks again for reading this fic. :)


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